“It is August 9th, officially midwinter in the southern hemisphere, but New Zealand’s Fox Glacier is sweltering beneath a brilliant noonday sun.”

“Though they cover an area larger than the Austrian and Swiss Alps combined, the southern Alps are relatively undiscovered.”

“To the east and above us the vertical Main Divide resembled a glistening palisade while the Fox below twisted sinuously toward Westland’s impenetrable beech jungles.”

“In the following seconds, I started toward the black hole then hesitated. What now? Do I yell for help?”

“In every direction, one peak confronts another and both battle the constant movement of the glaciers.”

“I do not know Dave Ashby well. He is by nature a man of few words.”

“At 26 Kevin is what David aspires to be—a certified Alpine Guide, or bergfuhrer”

“Listening to Dave I realized he still believed in his own immortality. It is a dangerous notion, peculiar to men under 30.”

“I doubt he realized that dying alone in an icy crack can be the price one pays for a stroll across a sunny glacier.”

“He took a step, then another and suddenly he dropped to his outstretched arms. He had stumbled into a second crevasse!”

“Dave saw it as an aberration as well a rare and unlucky day to which I just happened to bear witness.”

“I wish I had something profound to add. Something about risk and reward between high mountains and gold-tinted seas.”

It is August 9th, officially midwinter in the southern hemisphere, but New Zealand’s Fox Glacier is sweltering beneath a brilliant noonday sun. Heat waves shimmer above the snowfields, and fracturing ice and rock ricochet off the sheer flanks of Mt. Haast above us. Since early morning Kevin Boekholt of Mt. Cook’s Alpine Guides, James and Susan Kay, New Zealander David Ashby and I have been climbing toward some of the best skiing in the southern Alps. Now, push has suddenly come to shove. We have been unable to find a route through the immense crevasses and towering ice blocks that guard the Heemskir Glacier’s entrance. It is obvious that a 200-foot convex slab of snow is the only way up. We can either take a chance or turn back. Studying it from below, only Ashby votes for the slab and he simply walks around the rest of us and starts up it. 

Watching him kick steps up the loaded face, I know it’s going to slide. It looks burdened and feels dangerous. Yet, as he struggles up it, nothing moves. No fracture, no chunk, no slough. 

Much of our present danger can be blamed on recent severe winters. After decades of slow recession the Fox Glacier has suddenly started advancing. In 1985 forward movement of six feet has recorded, which has turned the lower sections into tremendous piles of broken ice. Now the only way off the Fox is by plane or helicopter. New crevasses have appeared on the high neves and there has been an accompanying increase in accidents. The problem lies not with the major crevasses that are visible, but with the smaller ones hidden beneath a thin snow cover. Without years of experience, it is impossible to know which part of the glacier is safe and which is not. While the surface appears as solid as a city street, it is frighteningly easy to blunder into a crevasse and Kevin has repeatedly warned us to stay exactly in his tracks. 

“Well…that’s one way of testing it,” he now observes quietly as Ashby waves to us from the Heemskir’s broad white plane. We had met Ashby the night before in the Pioneer Hut. He told us that, among others, his goal was to solo climb Mt. Ledenfield—a sheer ice pinnacle rising above Marcel Col. Armed with two ice axes and crampons he followed our tracks to the Heemskir icefall and after a few minutes consideration simply said, “No problem, mates!” before continuing on. 

I am next to start up the slab and I feel exposed in his tracks. Dragging my skis up that vertical face, I recall stories of the second man, the second man to ski the chute, the second man to cross a snow bridge, the second man across the glacier. In spite of a premonition that Ashby had taunted fate and so exposed us to some unknown and uncollected penalty, nothing happened. New Zealand’s southern Alps still glistened under the blazing sun, a warm sea-salt scented wind rose through the icefall and the Heemskir groaned softly in its unrelenting march to the ocean. 

Except the weather, the four days since Bruce Coburn of Mt. Cook Airlines had flown us onto the Cornice Wall above the Tasman Saddle Hut had been a rare adventure. It was mid-morning August 5th when the short-take-off-and-landing aircraft touched down in a foot of new powder, deposited us on the upper Tasman, and after a long down wind run, lifted off beneath the vertical Main Divide. 

Though they cover an area larger than the Austrian and Swiss Alps combined, the southern Alps are relatively undiscovered. Using synthetic sealskins and Tyrolia free-heel mountaineering binding on our skis, photographer Jim Kay, his wife Susan, Kevin and I had spent the next two days skiing the steep faces around the Tasman Hut before flying over to the head of the Fox Glacier and the rebuilt Pioneer Hut. From there, weather permitting, we had planned to explore the Fox’s high couloirs before traversing across to the Franz Joseph Glacier then back down and out to the Chancellor Hut. 

Now, on our fourth morning, we were standing on top of the Heemskir icefall where our route to the Marcel Col ridge line appeared as solid as a city sidewalk. 

Why then, was I holding my poles like crutches? And why was I ignoring the view? After all, as much as the skiing, it was this view that drew us to the Fox Glacier. To the east and above us the vertical Main Divide resembled a glistening palisade while the Fox below twisted sinuously toward Westland’s impenetrable beech jungles. And beyond that the Tasman Sea stretched like an iridescent gold pond to the distant horizon. 

“I’m off then, mate, see you on top,” said Ashby, who waved, shouldered his day pack and started up the Heemskir’s wide white plane. I kicked the snow off my boots and stepped into my skis. When I looked up he was making good time toward the distant ridge. One foot in front of the other, it was tough going. He stopped for a second, glanced toward me then started again. At that moment, the glacier appeared to take a deep breath, then collapsed, and Dave Ashby disappeared into a crevasse. 

In the following seconds, I started toward the black hole then hesitated. What now? Do I yell for help? Wait for Kevin and his rope? Or rush to the edge and risk falling in myself? At that moment an ice axe suddenly appeared in the mouth of the hole and an instant later I caught a glimpse of his face. Somehow, as he fell through the surface, Ashby managed to self-arrest, and now, unhurt, he was struggling to extricate himself. 

Thirty seconds passed and he retraced his tracks toward me. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he told me, the disbelief heavy in his voice. 

Kevin suddenly appeared beside me. 

“I fell in a crevasse,” David confessed, nervously brushing off the snow. 

Kevin hesitated, glanced uphill and simply asked, “Where?” 

Dave pointed uphill to the dark hole in the white snow. Following Kevin, I slowly sidestepped up to it where my first glimpse into its narrow maw instantly gave me vertigo. By any standard, it was not a large crevasse. Only two feet wide at the surface, its two mirrored walls shrunk to a blue-black line hundreds of feet below. 

Early that morning I had had a premonition of this moment, had sensed it coming. Huddled in a down sleeping bag within the Pioneer Hut, I tried to remember my dream (if it was a dream) and briefly wondered if those fading images were real. 

Even when I know it’s only a dream. I hate falling—having learned to dread the terrifying slip and the sudden drop. For some unexplained reason. I always fall on my back, looking up at a cliff face that shrinks rapidly away. Though I always fight it—insisting angrily to myself that I’ll soon awaken—I can never remember any transition between falling and staring into the darkness afterward. 

Park rangers had warned us that a major storm was approaching New Zealand’s Westland National Park. Between now and then, we could only count on another day of clear skies, enough time to scale Marcel Col and ski the 8,000 feet—a mile and a half vertical!—down to the town of Fox Glacier. 

It is the stuff skiers dreams are made of. It is also the source of nightmares, for between the Southern Alps and Cape Horn, 14,000 miles to the west; there is no intervening landmass to slow the rush of wind and waves. Storms gather strength across those Antarctic wastes and when they finally encounter Mt. Cook’s 14,000 foot summit, the resulting collision approximates an infinite force beating upon an immovable object. 

At times, Mt. Cook and the Main Divide, of which it is the highest of 100 major peaks, are battered by 150mph-plus winds and receive 250 feet of snow per year—conditions that routinely strand climbers. Despite the hazards, Mt. Cook and Westland National Parks serve as powerful lodestones for both skiers and climbers. In every direction, one peak confronts another and both battle the constant movement of the glaciers. It is a battle they will eventually lose, for geologists claim that without the supporting scaffolds of blue ice, many of these peaks would simply collapse. 

Lying in my sleeping bag, I can’t fall back asleep. I hear someone pumping a Coleman lantern. I open my eyes and take a deep breath. The cold air smells of white gas, wet wool, sweat and food—onions, cheese, salami, cabbage, chocolate and coffee. A match flares and an instant later the Pioneer Hut flickers with a cold, hard light. 

In the Coleman’s harsh glare, the hut is a single 15 by 20 foot room with a partitioned section allotted to the storage of skis and packs. Bunk beds line the east, west and south walls. To take advantage of the winter sun and conserve heat, only the north wall has windows and these are covered with thick ice that mirrors the Coleman’s light. Leaning on one elbow, I can see the mummified shapes of the six New Zealanders, the two Norwegians, the Kays and, across the room and silhouetted by the lantern, a figure who is bent over the steel-plated workbench.

I glance at my watch. Four a.m. His back is to me and I cannot see his face, only his vaporous blue breath that hangs in front of the icy windows. He is dressed in patched long underwear, a pair of seedy black climbing short, heavy Lowa boots and a weathered fleece jacket. Oblivious to the sleeping forms, he is giving his undivided attention to a stove. I watch his right arm tirelessly pump away. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. He screws the pump back in, fills the spirit cup with white gas and touches a match to it. The liquid flickers deep blue, he waits until the fire subsides then opens the valve. The stove hisses to life and he adjust the bright flame before setting a pot of snow on it. 

I watch him rummage through a small rucksack for a food bag, which he opens on the work surface. Among the assorted packages, he opens a small cube of cheese. He reaches for a knife to cut it and the lantern sputters, casting flickering shadows across his face. An instant later it flares back, illuminating his blond beard, high cheekbones and straight nose. It is a young, handsome face that bears, the effects of prolonged exposure to high altitude sun. Faint lines radiate out from his light eyes that search the shadows for additions to his rice. Watching from my bag, it is obvious Dave Ashby will be climbing alone. And that, more than the cold, causes me to shiver. 

I do not know Dave Ashby well. He is by nature a man of few words. Last night, however, I learned that he comes from Wellington on the North Island had has spent the past two weeks solo climbing the separate peaks around Pioneer Hut. Beyond that he is 26 years old and is as strong as one of goat-like Tar that inhabit these peaks. He also wants to be an alpine guide. Word around the hut, however, is that he takes enormous chances. No one wants to see him make this climb alone and yet no one wants to climb with him. 

“Without a rope? You’ve got to be kidding, mate!” a fellow New Zealander told him. “Really, you must be mad. Look I’d lend you mine, but I’ll be needing it.” He laughed uneasily. In spite of the hazard, however, Ashby is going to cross the crevasse riddled Fox Neve in the dark, alone and without protection.

“So Dave, it is Haast then?” Our guide, Kevin Boekholt’s whispered question surprises us both. He has been sitting in the far lower bunk, silently watching Ashby’s preparations. I don’t know if some men bring a genetic talent to the mountains or in turn are tempered by them, if some men are shaped by the bitter cold, the stress of thin air, brilliant sun and constant danger, or at some critical point are cured of any desire to return. As much as anyone I’ve met, however, Kevin Boekholt is at home among these pinnacles of black rock and blue ice. 

At 26 Kevin is what David aspires to be—a certified Alpine Guide, or bergfuhrer—an international rating based on past climbing experience, one summer and two winter alpine courses, as well as written exams that only a very select minority ever pass. Added to this is that ineffable sense of judgment, presence and coolness under fire, that only comes after years of experience. 

In his teens and early 20’s, Kevin climbed every major peak in the Main Divide. Since then, he has pioneered a new route up the Southwest Rib of Chobuje in Nepal and has climbed in Europe, Alaska and Yosemite Valley in California. In between he has worked as a Mt. Cook park ranger and as a guide for Alpine Guides. As much as anyone I’ve known, he is a natural leader and has earned a reputation as an immensely talented climber—one that preceded him into the Pioneer Hut. Including Ashby, three of the New Zealanders knew him by name, and immediately asked his opinion about different routes on the surrounding peaks. 

During the past week I’ve learned to depend on Kevin’s judgment, experience and wealth of stories about the Southern Alps. In that time an easy camaraderie has developed between us and during dinner last night, he admitted he would have no worries guiding me—a novice, with little serious climbing experience—up Mt. Cook. And, as proof of my confidence, I believed him. 

Now as I watch him from the shadows, Dave looks away from the boiling pot. “I studied the northeast chute yesterday. The ice looked stable,” he whispers in reply, turns back to the pot and adds rice to the bubbling water. 

“It’s not the ice I’d worry about but the loaded chute above it,” Kevin advises him quietly. 

“It should have had time to settle,” Ashby disagrees. 

“What if it hasn’t?” Kevin asks, “Either way it’s a bad one to solo.”

Dave pauses in consideration. For seconds he does not move, simply stares into the blue steam swirling around the lantern. It’s obvious he can’t be talked out of it but it’s just as clear that the guide is searching for a way. Short of physically restraining him, there appears to be little more Kevin can do or say and so he leans back against the wall and watches Dave finish his breakfast. 

“It’s not only Dave you worry about,” he would tell me later. “It’s the others who will try to rescue him.”

Later, I watch Ashby shoulder his small pack and start toward the door. 

“Take care, mate…” Kevin advises him softly. 

“No worries,” Ashby says, smiling in return. He then closes the Coleman’s valve, and as the small room slowly fades into darkness, steps into the brilliant night.

I should have known Dave would not climb Haast. It should have come as no surprise when I saw him descending Governor’s Col.

“You were right, mate,” he told Kevin when he reached us. “Once the air warmed up, all sorts of garbage came rumbling down that chute. It was bloody difficult down-climbing it,” he shook his head, “but there’s still time to give Ledenfield a try.” Ledenfield stood on the Main Divide, immediately south of Marcel Col. “Would you mind if I tagged along in your tracks? It makes the going easier.”

“It’s your choice,” Kevin told him. 

Now, skirting the crevasse Dave had just fallen into, we climbed uphill to a wide bench where Kevin suggested we stop for lunch. I pulled a salami from my pack and handed a piece to Dave. 

He thanked me then volunteered, “Frightening, that.”

“The crevasse?” I asked, cutting another slice. 

He nodded. “I never expected it to be there…”

Kevin glanced over. “You never do. That’s why what you’re doing is so bloody dangerous,” he observed in a tone that defined the vast gulf, which exists between common sense and courage. 

Dave was not offended. “I accept the risks because the rewards are great,” he said. “Up there you cannot make mistakes, you must concentrate on the moment and when the danger is past you feel this tremendous exhilaration…”

I had heard such lofty sentiments before, from friends who were later lost on unnamed rock faces and on high performance motorcycles. If anything, time had taught me that extreme risk does not justify existence. Listening to Dave I realized he still believed in his own immortality. It is a dangerous notion, peculiar to men under 30. Often it is the source of great pain and tragedy. I doubt he had seriously considered the consequences of falling into a crevasse or making an unprotected mistake on an icy face. I doubt he realized that dying alone in an icy crack can be the price one pays for a stroll across a sunny glacier. 

“You’re alive because of luck, mate, nothing more.” Kevin told him. 

Dave chewed his salami and, somewhat chastened, nodded in agreement. “Well, if I’m to climb Ledenfield, I’d better be off,” he said, adding, “thanks for the lunch.” He brushed the crumbs off his stained shorts, pulled on his pack and started up a short, steep section that leveled out onto a broad plain. I turned away to store the lunch in my pack. When I glanced back he was 40 feet away, sinking to his knees through the windblown crust. He took a step, then another and suddenly he dropped to his outstretched arms. He had stumbled into a second crevasse!

In those first critical seconds the surface miraculously held. We started toward him but he was already using his ice axes to crawl free. Kevin reached him first and they both stared into the hole. It was far larger than the first, a 20-foot wide, icy maw that dropped a thousand feet to bedrock. Staring down into it there were no fine sentiments, only shock and fear and profound sense of deliverance. 

“Bloody hell.” Dave whispered. 

His second fall shook us. At that moment, I wanted to forget the Heemskir, Marcel Col and the foot of new powder. I wanted off the glacier and away from its hidden crevasses. But when I voiced my fears to Kevin he calmly observed, “You’ve misjudged me, mate. It’s not my place to stop Dave. Even if it was I doubt I could but I wouldn’t let you get within 30 feet of the crevasse. See that slight depression in the snow?” he said using his pole as a pointer. “Now see how it runs literally across the slope? I would never walk or ski anywhere near it.” He glanced uphill then back at me. “But if you’re afraid of continuing, we’ll turn back. I should let you know, however, that the worst is over. From here it’s only half an hour to the top.”

After the time, expense and effort to reach the Heemskir, could I in fact give up! Especially with the Col in sight? I trusted Kevin’s judgment and, following his lead, we continued uphill in a long, low angle traverse that eventually reached Marcel Col. The effort was more than worth the climb for from its windy saddle we could see the South Island’s east and west coasts while towering above us the tremendous Linda Face of Mt. Cook resembled an immense diamond of glacial ice tinted pale gold by the afternoon sun. 

In between studying the distant vistas and taking pictures, we watched Dave climb Lendenfield’s glistening north face. Driving his ice axes and crampons into the bright icy pinnacle, he was periodically obscured by blowing snow, a dark stick figure clinging to a thousand foot sheet of ice. It was a courageous, awe-inspiring attempt during which I was convinced his next move would be his last, but in time he crossed a shoulder and disappeared. 

The rising wind clutched at our poles, hats and goggles and it took us longer than expected to step back into our skis. During those few minutes Dave suddenly reappeared above us, downclimbing quickly, kicking his crampons into the hard ice. Upon reaching us he nervously described how, while walking along a hundred foot cornice, a crack suddenly appeared next to his left foot. A second later the entire cornice sheered off. 

Now visibly shaken, he swore that this was the last time. “That’s it, mate,” he told Kevin. “I’ve learned my lesson, no more solos,” he swore, his face drained of color. But Dave had shocked us once too often; we had exhausted our sympathy and advice and now we simply waited until returned to retrace our tracks back to the Pioneer Hut. In time, when he had shrunk to a black speck fare below, we moved out on the open slope and watched Kevin settle into his first turn, unweight and settle into his next. Jim, Susan and I waited until he stopped far below then followed toward the distant green forest and golden sea. 

It was almost dark when we reached the Pioneer. On the way back we had skied shin-deep powder between towering ice blocks and yawning crevasses and, as we stood studying our four sets of serpentine tracks, we rejoiced equally in the new snow, our safe route out and the sun’s parting green flash. Along with the two Norwegians, the Kiwis and two American women, Dave was finishing dinner when we arrived. He waited until I pulled out my notebook before sitting next to me on the bunk. 

“What are you writing, Mate?” he asked. 

“Notes for a story,” I replied. 

“About me?” he inquired, trying to read over my shoulder. 

“You’re the star,” I told him. 

“Come on,” he laughed uneasily. 

“You’re not going to make me look like some bloody fool stumbling from one crevasse to the next.”

I looked at him for a moment and realized Dave wasn’t the real story. That day on the Fox had been a frightening footnote to four days of spectacular skiing, an aberration that stood apart from New Zealand’s superb park system, its awesome vistas and life in Mt. Cook’s huts. Dave saw it as an aberration as well a rare and unlucky day to which I just happened to bear witness. He was concerned that I had misjudged him and tried to explain that though the conditions were treacherous, if he had fallen he wouldn’t have fallen far and, more important, he learned a valuable lesson. 

“If it’s any consolation, what happened today scared the bloody hell out of me,” he confessed. “I’m through with solo climbs.”

We were interrupted by the hut radio forecasting a major storm. The following dawn revealed a heady cloud bank moving across the Tasman Sea and, skipping breakfast, we quickly skied down to the Chancellor Hut where our luck held and we were able to hail a sightseeing helicopter. From the Chancellor Hut to the Fox Glacier we skimmed over a five-mile rubble field laced with crevasses, sheer ice pinnacles and brilliant blue cliffs. By any standard it was impassable. The front was moving quickly and as soon as the helicopter landed we hurriedly booked a flight back to Mt. Cook. A day later I boarded Air New Zealand’s superb night flight to Los Angeles and the day after that I was back to Idaho wondering if any of it happened. 

A month later I received a letter from Kevin. In it he wrote, “I didn’t know if you had heard that Dave Ashby fell into another crevasse in the trough below Chancellor Hut and was never found. He was last seen entering the trough by the other group of people in Pioneer Hut. The weather deteriorated quickly and they were caught out on the glacier for the night. When they eventually reached the Chancellor Hut there was no sign of Dave. A search was organized but no trace was found. So sad news. I tried to find a newspaper article but there wasn’t much written. What he was doing was extremely dangerous—but nevertheless he was a nice guy.”

I wish I had something profound to add. Something about risk and reward between high mountains and gold-tinted seas. I don’t know why Dave Ashby tried to cross the lower Fox. Perhaps his belief in his own immortality had suddenly flared brightly as he stood looking down at the crumbling glacier. And perhaps as he entered the Chancellor trough he was filled with the sense of accomplishment and exhilaration he spoke of that afternoon on the Fox. I hope so.