In mid May, John Barnes and Pete McGregor flew from Harihari into County Stream for a quick attempt on Mt Evans (2620m). Circling in the Hughes 500 over the névé – crevasses, icefalls, featureless snow – revealed little in the way of a possible landing site, so in a cunning attempt to prolong the spectacular ride I suggested Red Lion col. But that proved to be no go as strong gusts plucked at the helicopter so we circled down to the glacier again. Dicey, but Brian took his time, eventually finding a level spot and cautiously easing down tentative skids. We got the nod… then he was whap whapping away down valley, arcing down the County. Silence. John’s eyes disappear behind his huge grin. Alone in the mid-morning shadow under the West face of Evans – an immense, glazed wall of chaotic rock and snow. We set up a quick camp, roped up and picked our way through the slots, stepped out from shadow and began the long plug to the col. Steeper than it looked. On the col we realised that the ridge leaning over us was a very different proposition from our preconceptions. We’d thought it would be a straightforward plod with a few steep sidles, maybe a little technical scrambling. Perhaps in some conditions it is, but for us it was iced rock showering spindrift; the buzz and whirr of ice breaking loose as the mountain’s encrustation collapsed; crampons squeaking and scratching on verglas; tools picking for purchase on wrong-sloping rock; snow too soft to hold an axeplant. Balance above nothing, rockover, push and make the move, don’t think about the space… The brilliance of light and air, looking out over the sundazzled world: range upon range, deep valleys, the Tasman Sea of Cloud, Aoraki… Gravity defied by joy, on the edge of life. Birds in flight must feel like this. Eventually we knew the climb was going nowhere. We checked the altitude at the top of a steep, constricted gully – a dead end. After much indecisive blinking, the GPS finally produced a result: “Are you indoors?” so we reversed down the gully, abseiling off a frozen-in sling – someone had come this way – then cramponed across coruscating ice, scrabbled back to Red Lion col and trudged down to the glacier camp to watch white vapour writhe around the summit and evening colours change on ice-locked rock and névé, on schrunds and crevasses. A blast of wind whips over the col, howls down the glacier, tears at the camp then dies away. The first star winks in a darkening sky. I wake in moonlight as the glacier shudders – BOOM-BOOM-BOOM – and at dawn there’s a fresh fracture line not far from the tent. Mauve and indigo; the violet light pales and suddenly there’s a patch of gold on the Red Lion ridge. The dawn of another brilliant day on the West Coast. A day of ice-encrusted moraine becoming ice-encrusted river bed boulders; of terraces infested with spear grass, snow grass, recalcitrant shrubs and piripiri; of deep drops between giant jumbled boulders; of rushing water and camera lenses fogged when the kea’s at arm’s length. Half an hour from dark we called it quits and camped on a small terrace to wait for the new day and the easy way out. (Brian McBride flies a Hughes 500 from Harihari; ph. 03 753 3074; a/h 03 750 0113) thanks to Pete McGregor