Mt Murchison (2400m), Arthur’s Pass National Park - ANZAC weekend 2008 – leader: Don “French Don” French Well here we are three days after our return to civilization, and there are pterydactyls arranged in empty spaces all around our homes, their skeletal wings festooned with stinking piles of technical fibres, rotting harnesses, slimy socks, decomposing boots, melting packs. Yes, it was a great weekend!, and Donatus Franciskus got us all there and back as planned. The idea was mooted in the pages of Fahrt und Go!, the regular organ of the Wellington sect of the NZ Alpine Club, and over a dozen members rose to the challenge. The attractions were manifold: to conquer a big, bad South Island mountain, to mount the mount with the legendary Donni Frangipanni, to prove that survival on chocolate buttons and freeze-dried fish-pie was possible, and that adults would submit to a regime of psychological pressure and extreme physical exertion amounting to torture, of their own free will. In fact this may have been a cruel sociopyschopathological experiment conducted by the Macciavellian agent of a certain DHB, Don Francisco di Master-Don. His proposal, only revealed in full when the ferry had left berth and escape was no longer possible, was to sleep on the roadside near Rangiora when we could drive no more (four hours ziz only was permitted), to march 20km along the stony bed of the Waimakiriri River and ascend to Ronnie Barker Hut, to summit Murchison the next morning in a grim race against an advancing weather system, and then to dance across the massive and slippery rocks of the gorge (“just like a ballerina” to use El Don’s own words), finishing up, after a force-march back along the riverbed, in the club lodge at Arthur’s Pass for lukewarm showers and toughened steak. The plan worked brilliantly, until on summit day we realized that the bad-weather system was being held up by the anticyclone over the area, and so the expected rains were delayed until departure day, leaving us with clear blue skies and amazing views over the White Glacier with its exquisite glass-blue crevasses large enough to drop a double-decker bus into and then throw another 3 buses on top. A contest was held requiring summiteers to estimate how many tonnes of rock we would each cause to hurtle 80 metres down the summit couloir: on average at least 2 tonnes per person, we guessed. The noise alone was astounding, and the sense of danger deeply intimidating. The crumbling summit was linked to a false summit by a 3 metre á cheval ridge-section with a steep gravelly slope on one side and a vertical drop to the glacier on the other. None of us lingered here; indeed the present writer refused at this point, preferring to wonder if the true summit 3 metres above him was actually protected by tapu… an airy, frightening place was his impression, and this was near enough for him. Several climbers felt the beautées of the White Glacier were sufficient compensation for the climb, and stayed below to enjoy the snows, the sun and the views north to the Waimakariri Gorge, where the keas screamed “Don… Don… aaarrgh!” The victims were later identified as: Michael Archer, Andrea Logan, Gavin Marshall, Paul Maxim, Kevin Patterson, Amanda Redvers, Simon Romanos, David Shanks, Jennifer Saunders, Matthew Scott, Gerard Smith, Matthew Stevens, James Wright, Thomas Zink. Voyage organisée par Le Comte Don de la France. Réportage par Le Marquis de SimoneRomance. Simon Romanos
