tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81998306789714828832024-03-16T11:52:02.643-07:00Bob McKerrow - WayfarerMountains, travel, humanitarian work and opinion.Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.comBlogger1089125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-54062107193200429772023-10-16T16:41:00.004-07:002023-10-16T18:27:36.165-07:00Otago Tramping and Mountaineering Club Celebrating 100 Years This Weekend<div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div id="cse-search-results"><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Trampers and Climbers are gathering in Dunedin this weekend to celebrate 100 years of the </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Otago Tramping and Mountaineering Club</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> with its long tradition of </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">exploration, tramping (trekking) rock climbing. skiing and mountaineering. Here is my take on how it became a climber's nursery and how many of us learned skills that took us to remote mountain ranges of the world, the rivers of the Amazon forests, the Antarctic and the Arctic. It is not a complete history, just one from my perspective.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div></div></div><br /><div id="cse-search-results"><div dir="ltr" div="" i="" trbidi="on"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f2AA6STejbY/T8n51GmwypI/AAAAAAAAIt0/0zCHF27n8kE/s1600/Aspiring+Colin+Monteath.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="272px" rba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f2AA6STejbY/T8n51GmwypI/AAAAAAAAIt0/0zCHF27n8kE/s400/Aspiring+Colin+Monteath.jpg" width="400px" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><strong><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The jewel in Otago's crown, Mount Aspiring. Most climbers in the OTMC aspired to climb to these heights. Many did and went on to greater heights: Photo by Colin Monteath</span></strong></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So many competent New Zealand climbers came out of Otago, and it is interesting to look back at the origins of mountaineering in Otago, and wider afield to see why? Here is a bit of a history of the club up until 1974, with special emphasis on why the club produced many outstanding mountaineers.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The N.Z. Alpine Club, formed in 1891, was the first organised mountain club in New Zealand. Several more were formed early last century, particularly after the First World War--the Tararua Tramping Club in 1919, The Otago Tramping & Mountaineering Club in 1923 and the Auckland Tramping Club in 1925. In Canterbury, a Christchurch Tramping & Mountaineering Club was formed in 1925. Later its male members formed the Canterbury Mountaineering Club.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">With the Southern Alps well traversed regularly by Maori in search of Greenstone, food and for the general draw of what lays over the ridge, early New Zealand mountaineers and trampers generally ignored a lot of information available in Maori records and folklore. Here is an extract from my article on Maori mountaineers of South Westland. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">http://bobmckerrow.blogspot.com/2008/03/maori-mountaineers-of-south-westland.html</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The mana and beauty of the Pounamu was an added attraction to cross the Divide again and again, all the while gathering further alpine experience. Their pre-European glossary of snow and ice, whilst not as comprehensive as the Innuit (Eskimo), certainly proved that they had rubbed their paraerae (sandals) on the high mountain passes. Whenuahuka described the permanent snow on the high peaks and hukapapa was the name for the huge snowfields. The snow slides from the high peaks were hukamania, and as they grew and took on avalanche proportions, they became hukahoro. The glaciers that drained the snowfields were called hukapo, the glacial sediment waiparahoaka and the snow-fed water, waihuka. Kipakanui, or ice, was seen in the shady valleys in winter, and the thick ice which never saw the sun was named waiuka, meaning solid water.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Early runholders and gold miners in Otago often crossed passes in the late 1850s and early 1860 and set a path for later European climbers who followed. My great grandfather James McKerrow surveyor /explorer a true-blue Otago mountain man, surveyed many parts of remote Otago, Southland and Fiordland frequently climbing peaks, not only once but sometimes four times before he got the right weather to take a bearing. So many of us young mountaineers in Otago had a lineage from explorers, shepherds, runholders, gold miners, sheep stealers and surveyors and with our tough outdoor upbringing, we took to the hills of Otago, like ducks to water.</span></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QbHV3mkvtI8/T8n3fLugHgI/AAAAAAAAItc/LbCf3WGQqEY/s1600/james+mckerrow.jpg" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400px" rba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QbHV3mkvtI8/T8n3fLugHgI/AAAAAAAAItc/LbCf3WGQqEY/s400/james+mckerrow.jpg" width="252px" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">James McKerrow (pictured left) was the first person to climb Mount Pisgah in Fiordland in 1863. McKerrow noted that 'from its summit, the mouth of Caswell Sound and the ocean beyond, were seen on 3 January 1863. At that time there was a strong desire to find an overland route to the West Coast. 'The sighting of the West Coast from the interior for the first time, so far as I know, brought to my mind the sighting of <b>"The promised land"</b> by Moses from Pisgah, hence the adoption of the name."</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">One hundred and thirty years later, Southland mountaineer Stan Mulvaney wrote of how this was a very difficult task. <a href="http://jamesmckerrowsurveyor.blogspot.com/2011/04/mount-pisgah-first-climbed-by-james.html">More on James McKerrow</a></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So with this background of rugged Maori travelers surveyors, runholders, goldminers and explorers, the spirit of the hills started a new era with Malcolm Ross of Dunedin heading for Mt Earnslaw in 1885 on an expedition which was characteristic of the 'pluck and daring', colonial ingenuity and self-reliance which typified the early exploits of New Zealand's homebred mountaineers (Ross 1892). Ice axes were improvised from manuka saplings and the blades of sheep shears, while horseshoe nails provided extra friction for his boots (Gilkison 1957: 32). Ross's expedition triggered a number of attempts on Mount Earnslaw, which was finally climbed in 1890 by one of the original expedition members, a young local shepherd and tourist guide called Harry Birley.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">By erecting a cairn on the summit, he left not only proof of his ascent, but also marked the advance of man further into this remote wilderness.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Between the first and second World Wars, in the context of social dislocation and economic hardship, young men and women in Otago were drawn to mountain environments for an experience which diverted them from, and in a sense gave meaning to, the world and time that they were living through. It was also a time increasingly characterized by the 'more rigid structures, impersonal forces, and sprawling cities' of the historical momentum of rationalization and bureaucracy (Olssen 1981: 278). explore 'their' mountains and therein they discovered a sense of self.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T3BcVOmBld0/T8xDPCkpGfI/AAAAAAAAIvU/sTWrTdaYWsM/s1600/East+Matuki.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T3BcVOmBld0/T8xDPCkpGfI/AAAAAAAAIvU/sTWrTdaYWsM/s400/East+Matuki.jpg" width="266" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">From its inception, the Otago Tramping and Mountaineering Club ran trips to remote parts of Otago and Southland and members quickly gained bush, river, snow and ice techniques. Photo: OTMC archives.</span></b></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So the formation of the Otago Tramping Club club was not an isolated event. Dunedin had been the home of a good many noted trampers and mountaineers such as Malcolm Ross, Kenneth Ross, H.F. Wright, J.K. Inglis, E. Miller and E. A. Duncan. In the earliest post-war years groups of Otago University students - G. M. Moir, R. S. M. Sinclair, D.R. Jennings and many others - had been exploring and track-cutting in the Hollyford and Cleddau Valleys. And both the hills around Dunedin and the Routeburn, Greenstone and Hollyford areas saw an ever-increasing number of visitors. Amongst these, the idea of forming a Club had been discussed informally, and the idea was quick to gain acceptance.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In 1923 the new Club immediately started with a flourish, and forthwith set out to walk. There was an immediate rush of new members, and at the end of the first year, the roll was 157. The first tramp was planned for Saturday afternoon, September 1. About 50 members assembled at Ross Creek reservoir and set off up the Pineapple Track to Flagstaff - a clear sunny day, with a cold south-westerly wind, the kind we know so well. The following Saturday some 60 persons gathered at the Gardens corner for a climb of Signal Hill and down the other side to Burkes; and this was followed the next day by a trip to Whare Flat, where various parties converged on a pleasant river-bank below McQuilkan's (long since washed out by floods and ruined by the invading gorse).</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OgjGuUFosxw/T8n4-2zBiqI/AAAAAAAAIts/TDOoHzh3YIA/s1600/Ben+Rudd.jpg" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="270px" rba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OgjGuUFosxw/T8n4-2zBiqI/AAAAAAAAIts/TDOoHzh3YIA/s400/Ben+Rudd.jpg" width="400px" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><strong><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ben Rudd at his hut with Otago Tramping Club visitors 1923.</span></strong></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A fortnight later while one group climbed Mt. Cargill, two others set off for Whare Flat - one of which made the journey successfully, but the other was stopped and warned off by Ben Rudd, the old hermit whose property was long afterwards purchased by the Club. Scott Gilkinson was one of those cut-off and still remembers the feelings of alarm as they encountered the stocky, bearded little man with the shot-gun. As a result of this, the Club arranged with Ben Rudd that he would cut a track through the manuka scrub, thus providing a route to Whare Flat while keeping members well away from Ben's property. For this he was paid the princely sum of £5, and the track was under very</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">By 1930 then, the Club was well established as a force in the community. Whereas previously trampers had been looked on almost as cranks, or at best as rare curiosities, their activities were now accepted as rational and respectable. The 'thirties, and the onset of the Depression, saw the Club ready to play its part.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sVIzcDltSAI/T8rbuHM3X3I/AAAAAAAAIuA/wbxbc-Xvbx4/s1600/Big+Hut.jpg" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="300px" rba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sVIzcDltSAI/T8rbuHM3X3I/AAAAAAAAIuA/wbxbc-Xvbx4/s400/Big+Hut.jpg" width="400px" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><strong>At 4350 feet (1325 m) above sea level Big Hut. </strong><strong>In 1946 the Otago Ski Club opened this spacious 70-bunk ski lodge near the summit of the Rock and Pillar Range. The Otago University Tramping Club, then the Otago Tramping and Mountaineering Club, took over the hut in the 1980s and did repairs that kept the elements out.</strong></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On the local scene there was extensive development of active interest in the mountains. For seven years the Otago Tramping Club had been building up its activities. The Otago University Tramping Club was functioning—very actively in some years, more modestly in others. Under the influence of Ellis, Miller, Boddy, Aitken and others, Otago men had been taking an active interest in the higher mountains in North-west Otago. At the end of 1930 the Otago Section of the N.Z. Alpine Club was formed in Dunedin, this being the start of a long period of friendly co-operation between trampers and mountaineers. In 1932, as a result of five weeks of continuous ski-able snow on Flagstaff, the Otago Ski Club was formed; the Tramping Club " learned with interest of its formation and extended to it its good wishes for a successful future ". The three clubs operating in their respective fields worked in well together, with some members common to all, and with members of one of the clubs not infrequently becoming interested in the others.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My hero, my guru, Vern Leader, a great Otago cricketer, mountaineer and tramper, was alienating himself from New Zealand's traditional Alpine fraternity in the late 1930s by carrying on the Mount Earnslaw tradition set by a young local shepherd and tourist guide called Harry Birley who soloed Mt. Earnslaw in 1890. Birley, Leader and Denz, all revolutionaries had something in common which I wrote on my website.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 16px;">Bill Denz on one occasion took a large coffee jar from the house I lived in at Mount cook in 1972 which he used as a water bottle on his new route on Mt. Cook. Some weeks later when I did a Grand Traverse with Aat Vervoorn, when we guided 64-year-old Vern Leader, we discovered the infamous coffee jar on the ridge. You had to admire Bill for the sheer audacity and guts of this young emerging mountaineer.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;" /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 16px;">Vern Leader, 44 years older than Bill at the time, probably identified with Bill Denz better than most, despite the age gap. Vern who did a number of large first ascent solo climbs in the Earnslaw group, had written up his climbs in the NZAJ, and was publicly criticised in NZAC publications for dangerous practices. So when we found Bill Denz's abandoned coffee jar, Vern understood better than most, what solo climbing was about, and the flak you get for being bold.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N77-NI-XGF0/T8xEc-ztuaI/AAAAAAAAIvc/3hJpEYp7SPQ/s1600/Mt.+Mule+pack.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N77-NI-XGF0/T8xEc-ztuaI/AAAAAAAAIvc/3hJpEYp7SPQ/s400/Mt.+Mule+pack.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Right: The trusty 'Mountain Mule' pack carried the loads for over four decades, perhaps longer. From lugging 90lb bags of cement and</span></b><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> 4 x2s on the frame, huts were built. On Christmas trips 90 lb packs were not uncommon. Photo: Bob McKerrow</span></b></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Interest in organised Christmas trips reached a peak in 1947 when no less than three expeditions were planned Rockburn - Olivine, Hopkins and Ahuriri, with 50 to 60 members involved. Gordon McLaren and Murray Douglas climbed Mt Ward (third ascent) - the first major ascent to be made by the climbing enthusiasts. A high standard of safety was maintained on all these trips and no incident of any sort occurred, despite the numbers in the field.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Christmas 1948 saw another Club camp in the Wilkin Valley. Pack horses took half a ton of stores to Jumboland Base Camp and their owner charged £97 for the privilege. Every part of the Wilkin and its tributaries were visited, and several good climbs made, including the first ascent of the inaccessible Pickelhaube in the South Wilkin. Jack Hoskins and Scott Gilkison made a first crossing from the West Coast via the Waiatoto, Pearson Saddle and South Wilkin. The Rees, Dart, Matukituki, Rockburn, Hollyford and Ahuriri were also visited by other parties. Aspiring was climbed by Gordon McLaren and party, and Murray Douglas climbed Mt Cook - the Club's first major post-war ascents.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HVtfuGG29LA/T8n2V4fG5KI/AAAAAAAAItU/NDyFXMM-gNc/s1600/Olivines+John%5B1%5D.bmp" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="320px" rba="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HVtfuGG29LA/T8n2V4fG5KI/AAAAAAAAItU/NDyFXMM-gNc/s320/Olivines+John%5B1%5D.bmp" width="216px" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">John Armstrong. One of the strong and visionary Presidents the club had in its long history. John was behind the Freedom March that broke the Government's THC stranglehold on the Milford Track in 1965.</span></b></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It is interesting to note just how advanced the Club had become by the end of '63, with parties as far afield as Cook, Homer, Harrison, Tutoko, Matukituki, Dart and Rees. A considerable number of peaks were climbed in these areas, and while this may be commonplace today, it was then regarded as another milestone in the Club's history. In November 1963, the Club moved into its (then) present premises in Lower Dowling Street. By 1964 the Club was under the capable control of President Gerry Kampjes who initiated skiing within the Club, and expressed a desire for the Club to build a hut at Coronet Peak. Models, plans and specifications were prepared, but even up until 1968 " red tape foiled all plans to go ahead with this.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><strong><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">John Armstrong carried on the tradition of capable and innovative Presidents with entrepreneurial skills, a sense of adventure, and an even bigger sense of humour.</span></strong></div><div id="cse-search-results"><strong><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></strong></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div></div><br /><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sP0j6HlqtOM/T8nxfOKITRI/AAAAAAAAItI/UCacn2ylg4Q/s1600/Olivines+Robyn+2%5B1%5D.bmp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="267px" rba="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sP0j6HlqtOM/T8nxfOKITRI/AAAAAAAAItI/UCacn2ylg4Q/s400/Olivines+Robyn+2%5B1%5D.bmp" width="400px" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><strong><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Women always played a leading role in the Otago Tramping and Mountaineering Club. Robyn Norton (now Armstrong) went on a number of big, remote journeys such as this one in Forgotten River, the Olivine Ice Plateau and climbing peaks at the head of the Rockburn before coming down the Rockburn in 1967 with future husband John Armstrong and a young Bob McKerrow.</span></strong></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On January 8th and 9th, 1966, six Club members climbed Mt Cook - M. Jones, G. Kampjes, J. Armstrong, G. Hasler, I. Meyer and H. Laing. Although Club members had climbed Cook before, and have since climbed far more formidable peaks, this does serve to give some idea of the standards reached during this period.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BLWCIOElyvg/UZwlaX5LzWI/AAAAAAAALUc/k90Lb43Q-Uc/s1600/Ev+Murray.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BLWCIOElyvg/UZwlaX5LzWI/AAAAAAAALUc/k90Lb43Q-Uc/s400/Ev+Murray.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Murray Jones right with Sherpa friends on a trip over the Lumding La In Nepal where we had an attempt on Kwandge. in 1975. Photo: Bob McKerrow</span></b></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A change in attitudes was noticed in 1966, and is evidenced in the following report which is worth a place in history:</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">At a lively extraordinary general meeting held on October 26, 1966, the grandiose plans of the committee, led by radical President John Armstrong, were amended. Chief Guide James consented to remain in the cabinet, as tramping is still an 'approved' sport.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The following motion was passed after hours of discussion and much amendment. "This Club should continue to encourage tramping, climbing, ski mountaineering and ski-ing without detriment to the Club's prime aim of tramping."</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Bob Cunninghame: " There has been a considerable change in the last five years. There was next to no climbing up until that time."</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Gerry Kampjes: " Five or six years ago there was little ambition in the Club and less than half the number of people."</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Graeme Hasler: "Safety is of paramount importance. We must have a balanced club"</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Laurie Kennedy: "Something must suffer if we run a climbing course"</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Jim Freeman: " People now have more money and are able to spread out into areas and sports not previously possible. Now less scope for tramping. Climbing is the natural outcome of tramping"</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Alan Thomson: "Need to support tramping"</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Arthur James: " Far better to have a small specialist club where you know most of the people rather than a large social ski-ing and climbing organisation."</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Jim Cowie: " If the O.T.C. does not run an instruction course in climbing there is little incentive for the likes of me to remain in the Club."</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Roger Conroy: " Let's change the name to the Otago Tramping and Mountaineering Club"</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ross Adamson: "Too much advertising on ski-ing by word of mouth and publications"</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><strong><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Photo below: Bob McKerrow (l) Graeme Lockett and Keith McIvor on the summit of Mt. Huxley, Easter 1967. photo: Jim Cowie</span></strong></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tnvUDv6G9Pw/T8nt5zc5gBI/AAAAAAAAIs8/GRoIH3-YZRs/s1600/Huxley+2.jpg" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="211px" rba="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tnvUDv6G9Pw/T8nt5zc5gBI/AAAAAAAAIs8/GRoIH3-YZRs/s320/Huxley+2.jpg" width="320px" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Easter '67 still saw climbing being carried out with Bruce and Ken Mason, Heather and Stu. Thorne, Logan McGhie and Dick Brasier climbing Mt McKenzie. Mt Strauchon was climbed by Stu. Thorne, Logan McGhie and Dick Brasier, and Mt Huxley by Bob McKerrow, Graeme Lockett, Jim Cowie and Keith McIvor.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Christmas 1967-68 saw Club trips led by John Armstrong and Bruce Mason to the North Routeburn, North Col and Rockburn, other's going on to Fohn Saddle and the Beansburn. Parties led by John Fitzgerald went to Martins Bay, Big Bay, Pyke, Alabaster Pass, Olivines, Cox Saddle, Hidden Falls, Park Pass and Rockkburn. Trevor Pullar looked after a party from the Arawata River to Mlilford Heads, Laurie Kennedy's party went into the Olivines whilst Jim Cowie, Keith McIvor and Bob McKerrow spent 10 days in the Cook region and 10 days at Aspiring. Graeme Hasler also ,was back in the Cook area. All in all, a fantastic amount of tramping and climbing was achieved during this season - on a scale which was to continue until the end of the '60's.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fv6yv-94vSU/UZrU34kTl0I/AAAAAAAALT8/4BV5cKY-oFQ/s1600/Keith+and+Bob.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Fv6yv-94vSU/UZrU34kTl0I/AAAAAAAALT8/4BV5cKY-oFQ/s400/Keith+and+Bob.jpg" width="276" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Keith McIvor right and Bob McKerrow left, on the summit of Malte brun in 1967.</span></b></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Club member Boh McKerrow was a member of the 1968 Andean Expedition, and in return for some assistance from the Club, provided interesting accounts of his exploits.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The number of Club members who went south to the Antarctic during the '60s included Ken Gousmett, Keith McIvor, Bob McKerrow and Frank Graveson. A large number of members have tramped and toured overseas, with some distinguishing themselves on the climbing scene. Two names that spring to mind readily are Bob McKerrow and Murray Jones.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q2reI2kR2DM/T8n4CU7X1-I/AAAAAAAAItk/bC3DLhvyqd0/s1600/denz.png" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400px" rba="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q2reI2kR2DM/T8n4CU7X1-I/AAAAAAAAItk/bC3DLhvyqd0/s400/denz.png" width="280px" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Bill Denz (right) went on to be one of, or if not the greatest, New Zealand mountaineer, started in the Otago Tramping Club. While I was climbing in Peru in 1968, Bill Denz at the AGM August 1968, was elected onto the club committee. As his biographer Paul Maxim writes, “through the OTC, Denz and his friends met some of the seasoned local climbers Bob Cunningham and John Armstrong, overseeing his first climbs at Long Beach. Perhaps that is a good place to stop as Bill went on to be not only New Zealand’s greatest mountaineer, but one of the best in the world. We owe so much to the Otago Tramping and Mountaineering Club, and the mighty mountains of Otago.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cQeQJ2_YQKA/UZzK3EKk4RI/AAAAAAAALUs/JN0gkqf6QwY/s1600/Calum+Long+Beach..jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="271" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cQeQJ2_YQKA/UZzK3EKk4RI/AAAAAAAALUs/JN0gkqf6QwY/s400/Calum+Long+Beach..jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Calum Hudson carries on the OT&MC tradition of rock climbing at Long Beach with the first ascent of "Sticky Fingers" in 1973.</span></b></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A recent bulletin of the OT&MC shows a very active club with membership rising and the nursery <a href="http://otmc.co.nz/files/bulletin_pdf_files/2005/august2005.pdf">alive and well.</a></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was not entirely happy with the above history up until the early 70s, so I wrote to Calum Hudson asking if he could fill the gaps.</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dear Calum</span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm 12pt -0.65pt; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt;">I know you are a busy man, but believe you can </span>fill a huge gap in my Otago mountaineering history. You are from Dunedin, and I</div><div id="cse-search-results">believe Murray Judge and Phil Herron are too ? Correct? After a few years</div><div id="cse-search-results">working at Mount Cook, I left in mid 1973 for Vietnam and spent the next 8</div><div id="cse-search-results">years overseas so I missed out on a lot of top climbing. From reading the Bill</div><div id="cse-search-results">Denz book, Murray and Phil come on the scene in 1973 and do the 1st ascent</div><div id="cse-search-results">Marian Nth Face and then NW face of Sabre. Any information you can provide will</div><div id="cse-search-results">be much appreciated. Thanks, Bob<o:p></o:p></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-size: 14pt;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span face="Tahoma, sans-serif" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-size: 14pt;"><b>Calum wrote a very comprehensive reply.</b></span><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm 12pt -0.65pt; text-indent: -18pt; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Hi Bob,</span></div><div id="cse-search-results">Please forgive me my tardiness in responding to your request.</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">First of all Murray Judge is from Wellington and had climbed at Titahi Bay, and</div><div id="cse-search-results">came to Dunedin in the early 70's to study medicine. He was a brilliant</div><div id="cse-search-results">technical climber right from when we first met in about 1972 and was climbing</div><div id="cse-search-results">much harder than anyone else around! Phil Herron was from Dunedin, his father</div><div id="cse-search-results">Jack was the rector at Bayfield High School and was a pretty tough character! I</div><div id="cse-search-results">believe he had been awarded a DFC in WW2 but I have tried verifying this on the</div><div id="cse-search-results">Internet to no avail. As far as I know there was no connection with the David</div><div id="cse-search-results">Herron you mention.</div></div><br /><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span face=""Tahoma","sans-serif"" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div><br /><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tC8QwDe_WoY/UZzNb3ishlI/AAAAAAAALU8/javeS_ozyus/s1600/Calum+Marori+Alphabet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="271" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tC8QwDe_WoY/UZzNb3ishlI/AAAAAAAALU8/javeS_ozyus/s400/Calum+Marori+Alphabet.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><b>Murray Jones from the OT&MC together with Graeme Dingle showed that New Zealand climbers could match it with the best in the world when they were the first mountaineers in the world to climb all the six great North Faces in the European alps in one season in 1969. In New Zealand, Calum Hudson together with Phil Heron from the OT&MC took our reputation into the 1970s with some gutsy climbs. In the 80s Calum was at the cutting edge of new routes such as this photo on <span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 18px;">"Maori Alphabet", Double Cone, Remarkables; during the first ascent with Kim Logan and </span><a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=100002598145199&extragetparams=%7B%22directed_target_id%22%3A0%7D" href="http://www.facebook.com/rob.turner.50159?directed_target_id=0" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; line-height: 18px; text-decoration-line: none;">Rob Turner</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 18px;"> in Jan.1986.</span></b><b><br /></b></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">Despite what Paul Maxim says in his Bill Denz Bio, Phil did not "learn the</div><div id="cse-search-results">ropes" from me! He and I climbed Mt Ollivier together at labour Weekend</div><div id="cse-search-results">1970 (both aged 14) on an OTC trip to MT Cook. We were accompanied by Judy</div><div id="cse-search-results">Knewstubb, Pauline Robilliard and Rod McKenzie and the following day were taken</div><div id="cse-search-results">aside by Gordon Hasell and taught the invaluable art of step cutting which I am</div><div id="cse-search-results">eternally grateful for!</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">Phillip went to Mt Cook with John Broad and Trevor Glossop at the end of 1971,</div><div id="cse-search-results">a trip that I was to go on as well until Judy Knewstubb phoned my mother and</div><div id="cse-search-results">suggested that I should not be allowed! I was heart broken of course and to</div><div id="cse-search-results">make matters worse Henry Stoddart refused my participation in the OTC Xmas trip</div><div id="cse-search-results">to the Olivines as he deemed me too small to carry the necessary food and</div><div id="cse-search-results">equipment! So I went to Fiordland with my father and made a double crossing of</div><div id="cse-search-results">the Routeburn via the Pass beneath Emily Peak in atrocious conditions and then</div><div id="cse-search-results">went to Homer where l climbed Barrier with a chap from Tasmania.</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">I had priorly made my first trip to the Darrans at Labour Weekend of 71 on an</div><div id="cse-search-results">OTC trip where I ventured to Moraine Creek and climbed a small unnamed peak</div><div id="cse-search-results">between Apirana and Revelation with Colin Strang, Eugenie Ombler and Heather</div><div id="cse-search-results">Craw.</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">Later in the Summer of 71/72 I returned to the Darrans twice more. In January</div><div id="cse-search-results">72 whilst at Long Beach I overheard the Big Boys discussing their plans to</div><div id="cse-search-results">climb a new route and asked if I could go! So the following weekend with Alan</div><div id="cse-search-results">Smith, Bruce Clark, Ken Calder and Pete Glasson I made my first new route on</div><div id="cse-search-results">the Sth Ridge of Apirana. A couple of weeks later I was invited to join a</div><div id="cse-search-results">Venturer Scout climbing course at Homer Hut. Along with Peter McKellar and</div><div id="cse-search-results">Murray Kokich from the OTC, we filled in a vacancy on what was to be a very</div><div id="cse-search-results">beneficial week of learning in my climbing career. Under the experienced and</div><div id="cse-search-results">colourful tutelage of Harold Jacobs, Austin Brookes and Don Morrison we got</div><div id="cse-search-results">stuck in to a fantastic week of climbing which culminated in an East/West</div><div id="cse-search-results">traverse of Sabre. I was well and truly hooked on the Darrans by this stage!!</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">Anyway, back to Phil. Sometime in 1972 I realized I had not seen him for some</div><div id="cse-search-results">months and rang him up to ask why he'd not been climbing. About that time, we</div><div id="cse-search-results">had decided to investigate why the crag at Mihiwaka had not been climbed on and</div><div id="cse-search-results">if there was any basis to the rumours that "the rock was loose" and</div><div id="cse-search-results">"the crag was so steep one would need a ladder to get started"! So</div><div id="cse-search-results">the rush was on, and one day I led Phillip and Eugenie Ombler up what was the</div><div id="cse-search-results">second route at Mihiwaka, "Living in the Past" , the climbing went on</div><div id="cse-search-results">and on, none of us had climbed anything as high before. But from that day on,</div><div id="cse-search-results">Phillip never looked back and was into climbing like a man possessed!!</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">At the end of 1972 Phillip and I carried our brand new Galibier RD's to Malte</div><div id="cse-search-results">Brun Hut (to preserve the new rubber soles) and proceeded to Tasman Saddle the</div><div id="cse-search-results">following day where we mucked around and climbed Aylmer. Then after a spell at</div><div id="cse-search-results">the Mt Cook Village where we had the privilege of a meeting with Max Dörfliger</div><div id="cse-search-results">who visited us whilst we were camping in the picnic shelter, we headed in and</div><div id="cse-search-results">up Haast Ridge for a couple of days and climbed Silberhorn. Then we were off to</div><div id="cse-search-results">the Darrans in early Jan 73 with Rob Turner and Colin Strang for an ascent of</div><div id="cse-search-results">the Notch route on Talbot and the West Ridge of Sabre.</div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results">After this it seemed Phil was determined to head onto the front line so to</div><div id="cse-search-results">speak and by the following Summer he was in the thick of it with Bill and</div><div id="cse-search-results">Murray. I meanwhile took a gentler approach making do with first ascents on the</div><div id="cse-search-results">Nth and Sth faces of Belle, the 4th ascent of the Nth Buttress of Sabre and a</div><div id="cse-search-results">solo ascent of the Jones/Campbell Route on the Summit Pyramid of Talbot before</div><div id="cse-search-results">heading in July 74 off to Europe and Yosemite Valley for 2 years sadly never to</div><div id="cse-search-results">see Phil again!</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">Phil was nicknamed the "Kamikaze Kid" because he was apparently</div><div id="cse-search-results">Fearless and it did not seem to phase him at all to find his runners</div><div id="cse-search-results">disappearing below his feet as he climbed. He was in my memory not particularly</div><div id="cse-search-results">talented technically as a rock climber, just incredibly cool and brave! He also</div><div id="cse-search-results">had amazing stamina due to his penchant for cross country running. Phil was in</div><div id="cse-search-results">fact 19 when he died being 2 months short of his birthday.</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">I have a couple of incredibly funny stories about Phil, and of course there are</div><div id="cse-search-results">a few regarding my time with Bill as well, who was very good to me as I grew as</div><div id="cse-search-results">a climber. However I will save them for some time when we can meet in person!</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">We must have crossed paths or come near enough during those early years Bob.</div><div id="cse-search-results">But my only real recollection of you was at an OSONZAC dinner at the new</div><div id="cse-search-results">Northern Oaks Union Rugby Club in Great King Street when you were making a</div><div id="cse-search-results">speech and a fellow named Johnny ?? had some disagreement with you and there</div><div id="cse-search-results">was a bit of a Fracas ensued!!</div></div><br /><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OTE2-6uPcE8/UZ1fWC5gT7I/AAAAAAAALVM/NvVvLTjULUc/s1600/Calum+Mikhiwaka.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OTE2-6uPcE8/UZ1fWC5gT7I/AAAAAAAALVM/NvVvLTjULUc/s400/Calum+Mikhiwaka.jpg" width="271" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><b>Calum Hudson on the <span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 18px;">first ascent of "Aqualung" at Mihiwaka in 1973.</span></b></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div><br /><div id="cse-search-results">Kim Logan and I met at Homer Hut in the early 80's and in December 1981 we</div><div id="cse-search-results">walked up the Hooker to Empress, not together mind and the following day I made</div><div id="cse-search-results">a solo ascent of the Sheila Face of Cook and Kim made an ascent of Earles</div><div id="cse-search-results">Route. I sat on the summit smoking for an hour before Kim arrived with bare hands</div><div id="cse-search-results">and bleeding knuckles, and on asking where were his mittens he replied, "I</div><div id="cse-search-results">stuck them down my Bush-shirt and they fell out!" We worked together for</div><div id="cse-search-results">the Park at Mt Cook the following year when the infamous rescue of Mark Inglis</div><div id="cse-search-results">and Phil Doole occurred and we were both in the Iroquois helicopter when it</div><div id="cse-search-results">crashed on the Empress Shelf!! I ended up staying in Queenstown with Kim and</div><div id="cse-search-results">his then wife Sharon in the mid 80's and that is when Kim and I with my old</div><div id="cse-search-results">friend Rob Turner from Bradford in Yorkshire made the first big rock climb on</div><div id="cse-search-results">Double Cone on the Remarkables in Jan 1986 with our ascent of "Maori</div><div id="cse-search-results">Alphabet" a route which for some reason has been erroneously misreported</div><div id="cse-search-results">in everything that has been published to date!! Hopefully the next edition Guidebook</div><div id="cse-search-results">to the area which is currently underway will have the True Story which is also</div><div id="cse-search-results">a rather funny tale I will relate to you at some time! Kim and I did one other</div><div id="cse-search-results">shorter and harder rock route above Lake Alta that Summer which thus far has</div><div id="cse-search-results">failed to make print at all! I have not seen a hell of a lot of Kim for quite</div><div id="cse-search-results">some time, we seem to move in different circles these days and it appears on</div><div id="cse-search-results">the few times I have dropped in to see him in Cromwell he has m not been at</div><div id="cse-search-results">home. However, I have very fond memories of the times we hung out and climbed</div><div id="cse-search-results">together.</div><br /><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MnqTws3ssb8/UZ1hSaFcumI/AAAAAAAALVc/wSg-NtomEzI/s1600/Kim+K2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MnqTws3ssb8/UZ1hSaFcumI/AAAAAAAALVc/wSg-NtomEzI/s400/Kim+K2.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><b style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Kim Logan without shirt 2nd from left with Peter Hillary to his right and Matt Comesky to his left in Islamabad after their fatal K2 expedition in August 1995 when Bruce Grant of Queenstown and Jeff Lakes from Canada died. I met them in Islamabad before they went and helped with transport and met the the survivors on arrival.</b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><a href="http://bobmckerrow.blogspot.com/2011/08/killer-mountain-k2-1995.html" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">For further information, read this.</a><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">Well Bob I really have got carried away here and written something of a small</div><div id="cse-search-results">Essay! But I hope it fills a few gaps in your history of Otago Mountaineering.</div><div id="cse-search-results">I am more than happy to dredge my mental archive for anything else it may hold</div><div id="cse-search-results">that would interest you!</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">Until then I wish you all the best in your work and further adventures, and I</div><div id="cse-search-results">look forward to catching up with you in person in the not too distant future!</div><div id="cse-search-results"><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results">Cheers, Calum.</div><div id="cse-search-results"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ObnSAdw4jOw/UZrWM_jvIvI/AAAAAAAALUM/c_LRzC2xhk4/s1600/Sefton+Bivvy+69.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="270" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ObnSAdw4jOw/UZrWM_jvIvI/AAAAAAAALUM/c_LRzC2xhk4/s400/Sefton+Bivvy+69.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><b>Keith McIvor with Vicky Thompson at Sefton Bivvy in 1969. Photo: Bob McKerrow</b></span></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">PS: I did read your Blog on Keith McIvor too which I found very moving. I met</span></div><div id="cse-search-results">Keith at the OTC in 1972 and went on an OTC trip to Ball Hut that Winter where</div><div id="cse-search-results">we spent the weekend ice climbing on the Tasman white ice. Keith was very good</div><div id="cse-search-results">to me as well and such a delightful person to be around. Bill Denz was on that</div><div id="cse-search-results">trip too and the three of us ended up returning to Dunedin in Keith's old</div><div id="cse-search-results">Austin A40. I saw him once again at the Alpine Club after that and will never</div><div id="cse-search-results">forget the day at OBHS when I learned of his death on the Caroline. I was</div><div id="cse-search-results">devastated as you can imagine. The day I learned that my friends could die in</div><div id="cse-search-results">the mountains! And that sombre day following with a Memorial Service at the</div><div id="cse-search-results">Church in James St in NE Valley. Wow!</div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p><br /></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin: 12pt 0cm; vertical-align: top;"></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"><em><strong><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Thanks to Lee Davidson for permission to use extracts from her publication:</span></strong></em></div><div id="cse-search-results"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><em><br /><strong></strong></em></span></div><div id="cse-search-results"><em><strong>The Spirit of the Hills: Mountaineering in Northwest Otago, New Zealand, 1882-1940.</strong></em></div><br /><div id="cse-search-results"><em><strong>Special thanks to Calum Hudson for providing an excellent history of his er</strong></em></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div>
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<script src="http://www.google.com/afsonline/show_afs_search.js" type="text/javascript"></script>Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-50474869661791410392021-11-18T20:59:00.003-08:002023-10-16T18:22:50.809-07:00 Reunited with my sea kayak<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6CP77lUQezY/YZcqmiKqfBI/AAAAAAABBmY/3jb-_GqXt788U0Id1uSu9NA4ZS_0FUf7wCPcBGAsYHg/s1769/FB_IMG_1637263522456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1769" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6CP77lUQezY/YZcqmiKqfBI/AAAAAAABBmY/3jb-_GqXt788U0Id1uSu9NA4ZS_0FUf7wCPcBGAsYHg/s320/FB_IMG_1637263522456.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Reunited with my faithful Perception Chinook s</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">ea kayak after 24 years. I bought this kayak from Max Grant in Palmerston North in 1985 when I was Director of NZ Outward Bound School and used it constantly up until 1993 when I left for another 20 years working for the Red Cross, mainly in Afghanistan.. It took me across Cook Strait three times. A double-crossing with Adrian Kingi and a ten hour crossing from Raumati to Cape Jackson. It took me down the Waimakariri in the Coast to Coast, down the Wanganui in the 1st Mountains to Sea triathlon in 1987 and in many triathlons with a kayak leg. When based at Franz Josef I paddled a lot of the South Westland coastline and rivers, including the Waiho from glacier to Sea. When I left for Afghanistan in 1993 and worked for the Red Cross my daughters kept it and used it. I found my old wooden split Nimbus paddle in it. The only thing missing was the rear plastic hatch cover which I have recently found another. My daughters call my kayak 'Yum Yum Yellow' based on the tory that shares like yellow kayaks.</span><div id="cse-search-results"></div>
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<script src="http://www.google.com/afsonline/show_afs_search.js" type="text/javascript"></script><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-njwEvztrV1I/YZcq6jB-cCI/AAAAAAABBmg/1fXIfBNK5YEnzlkWwYyw5omHHvnqR7O6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Kayak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1372" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-njwEvztrV1I/YZcq6jB-cCI/AAAAAAABBmg/1fXIfBNK5YEnzlkWwYyw5omHHvnqR7O6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Kayak.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> Above: I loved the compass, map on my deck which made it easy to navigate. (Photo Bob Mckerrow)</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xBouEO5kRJY/YZcr7o444uI/AAAAAAABBms/X1pWBn3gf9cWf4XoC8TWd443twChZmI3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Adrian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="2048" height="214" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xBouEO5kRJY/YZcr7o444uI/AAAAAAABBms/X1pWBn3gf9cWf4XoC8TWd443twChZmI3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Adrian.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>Above: Adrian Kingi (left) and me on the right, after a double-crossing of Cook Straiton on 9 February 1988..</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-80449605241369954652021-09-23T22:31:00.005-07:002021-09-23T22:31:48.055-07:00James McKerrow, explorer and namer<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background: url("https://resources.blogblog.com/blogblog/data/rounders/icon_arrow.gif") 10px 0.5em no-repeat rgb(255, 255, 255); border-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); border-image: initial; border-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 1px 1px; color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 17.0235px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; padding: 2px 14px 2px 29px;"><br /></h3><div class="post-header" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-665578832297483572" itemprop="description articleBody" style="background-color: white; border-color: rgb(187, 187, 187) rgb(187, 187, 187) rgb(255, 255, 255); border-image: initial; border-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 1px; color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.61px; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em; padding: 10px 14px 1px 29px;"><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3gBsMPR6AiA/TwlyA2eXApI/AAAAAAAAIGk/ss6U642iO7A/s1600/Z+earns+poseidin+pigeon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #225588; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3gBsMPR6AiA/TwlyA2eXApI/AAAAAAAAIGk/ss6U642iO7A/s400/Z+earns+poseidin+pigeon.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(187, 187, 187); margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 4px;" width="400" /></a></div><strong>During my 3 week holiday, I spent time travelling through the country that my Great Grand Father explored between 1861-63 at the head of Lae Wanaka and Wakatipu.</strong><br /><strong>Above we see the Routeburn, Caples, Rock Brun, Beans Burn, the Rees and the Dart valleys he explored, surveyed and named. Photo: Bob McKerrow.</strong><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tnht9-FFh9g/Twlzs4wCX8I/AAAAAAAAIGs/T197UuVB3zE/s1600/Z+earnslaw+closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #225588; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tnht9-FFh9g/Twlzs4wCX8I/AAAAAAAAIGs/T197UuVB3zE/s400/Z+earnslaw+closeup.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(187, 187, 187); margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 4px;" width="400" /></a></div><strong>The west and east peaks of Mt. Earnslaw. Photo: Bob McKerrow. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br /><br />James McKerrow was a prolific namer of features he surveyed. Over the years I have tried to climb, walk, raft or kayak, or just look and photograph the places he named..The map below conveys the extent of his work over one of the remotest parts of New Zealand<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6U3Fk_Nfw1o/Twl7MeMtx_I/AAAAAAAAIG0/ciTrGcXmh6g/s1600/mckerrowmap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #225588; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6U3Fk_Nfw1o/Twl7MeMtx_I/AAAAAAAAIG0/ciTrGcXmh6g/s400/mckerrowmap.jpg" style="border: 1px solid rgb(187, 187, 187); margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 4px;" width="400" /></a></div>Since much of the country over which he passed was virgin, McKerrow took on himself the task of naming prominent features of the landscape. The policy employed in this work he described thus:<br /><br />“ In naming of objects, those already in use in the district were always adopted, they are generally defined to a few creeks or perhaps a hill or two in the vicinity of the respective stations. The other names I either endeavoured to make descriptive or suggestive: this, in the case of the more prominent peaks, appears to me to be of much consequence to the traveller, for they become so many finger posts pointing the way. The great landmarks, Leaning Rock, Double Cone, and Black Peak, I found of much service in determining my whereabouts at the beginning of the survey; their names are legible in characters not to be mistaken”(1).<br /><br />“ A great number of descriptive names were given thus: Cathedral Peaks, The Monument, the Beehive, the Crown, the Coronet, Tooth Peaks, Twin Peaks, the Minarets, Mt. Sentinel, Titan Rocks, Spire Peak, and so on and so on……<br /><br />The mountain ranges were named after distinguished men in science, literature, travel and position, such as Kepler, Humbolt, Murchison,. Livingstone,, Forbes ( Professor of Natural Philosophy 60 years ago at Edinburgh, an authority on glaciers), Hunter (John, Anatomist) Sturt (Australian Explorer), Albert ( late Prince Consort)) Eglinton (Lord Lieutentant of Ireland and Lord Rector Glasgow University), Richardson (Sir John),Thomson, Hector, Garvie, Buchanan (local and well known), Goldie Hill and Bryce Burn were after my two men who were true and faithful throughout.” (2)<br /><br />“ An island in Lake Manawa-pori is Poman, named in 1862 by James McKerrow, after the principal Island or “mainland” of Orkney Islands in Scotland.,” with a view to help the rhythm of the future poets, who will describe in flowing numbers the charms of beautiful Manapouri, as McKerrow prophesises…….<br /><br />The Freeman was named by Mr. McKerrow in honour of Mr. Freeman Jackson, a very early runholder (3)….When Mr. James McKerrow was engaged with reconnoitring surveys during the years 1861-63, he named a number of places.” A few of these he named in the Wakatipu and Te Anau districts as follows: He gave the name Caples to one of the branches of the Greenstone, rivers….McKerrow named the Lingstone Mountains after Mr. D. Livingstine, the celebrated African explorer. David Peak(6802 ft/)in memory of Dr. Livingston’s christian name, Moffat Peak (5848 ft) , an African missionary and father-in-law of Livingstone. Eglinton River and Mountain after the Earl of Eglinton and Winton at that time Lord Lieutenanr of Ireland. Skelmorlie Peak (5933 ft.) and Larg Peak (5555 ft.)are both Ayrshire names. Mount Christina (8675 ft.) after a girl who was companion to Mrs. McKerrow in his absence. Clinto River, Te Anau, after one of the family names of the Duke of Newcastle, who was Colonial Secretary in 1863. Worsely Creek, North Fiord, Te Anau, named after the sheep farmer who drayed the boar for the surveyors from Manapouri Lake to Re Anau. Nurse Creek, after another sheep farmer, Lakes McKellar and Gunn after David McKellar and George Gunn….. Lake Fergus was named after Hon. T. Fergus in 1863. Bob’s cove was named after Bob Fortune, Mr. Rees’s boatman” (4)<br /><br />“ In the Doon, Dean Hill, Bean Forrest, Afton and other Scottish names Mr. McKerrow honoured the land of his birth,(5) Mt. Pisgah was taken from the bible. It was the vantage point from which the promised land was seen.(6).<br /><br />In his book, Otago Placenames (7), Mr. H. Beattie gives an exhaustive list of Mcerrow’s placenames. “ Besides J.T. Thomson, the most popular name giver in our history was probably James McKerrow”, he states. Mr. Beattie goes on to list more than 220 place names which are associated with McKerrow’s labours.<br /><br />(1) Otago Prov. Gaz. Vol. V, July 23,1862. P 16.<br /><br />(2) Letter to Hocken.<br /><br />(3) Roberts, W.H.S. Place Names and Early of Otago and Southland, P.32.<br /><br />" " Maori nomenclature, Early History of Otago. P.47<br /><br />(4) Roberts. P.48. Roberts does not make it absolutely clear whether or not McKerrow gives the last two names.<br /><br />(5) Kilmarnock Standard, 22nd August, 1903/<br /><br />(6) McKerrow’s Reminiscences.<br /><br />(7) Beattie, H. Otago Place Names, Pp. 78-86.<br />By 1861 there were several newly established sheep stations on the south end of the lake, when James McKerrow first arrived to carry out survey work. In 1862 McKerrow surveyed the lake in a whaleboat.<br /></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div>
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<script src="http://www.google.com/afsonline/show_afs_search.js" type="text/javascript"></script>Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-86745181216749225632021-08-08T14:26:00.000-07:002021-08-08T14:26:55.173-07:00<div id="header-wrapper" style="background: url("https://resources.blogblog.com/blogblog/data/moto_son/headbotborder.gif") left bottom repeat-x rgb(136, 187, 34); border: 0px; margin: 0px auto; padding: 0px 0px 15px;"><div class="header section" id="header"><div class="widget Header" data-version="1" id="Header1"><div id="header-inner"><a href="https://mountainsofourmind.blogspot.com/?m=0" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; display: block; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: none;"><br /></a></div></div></div></div><div id="content-wrapper" style="padding: 0px 16px;"><div id="main-wrapper" style="background-color: white; color: #555544; font-family: tahoma, "Trebuchet MS", lucida, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><div class="main section" id="main" style="float: left; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; width: 400px;"><div class="widget Blog" data-version="1" id="Blog1" style="margin: 12px 0px 0px;"><div class="blog-posts hfeed"><div class="date-outer"><div class="date-posts"><div class="post-outer"><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting"><a name="262890739327075827"></a><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="font-size: 15.6px; margin: 5px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="https://mountainsofourmind.blogspot.com/2011/03/skiing-in-afghanistan.html?m=0" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; text-decoration-line: none;">Skiing in Afghanistan</a></h3><div class="post-header"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-262890739327075827" itemprop="description articleBody" style="line-height: 18.2px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 5px;"><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on">In 1976 when I first worked in Afghanistan, and again from 1993-96 when I l,ived permanently for three years, I got to trek, climb and ski extensively in the Hindu Kush. In 1997 I tried to persuade my good friends Murray and Pat Reedy, to run trips to Afghanistan as I said it contained some of the best skiing, trekking and climbing in the world. Murray and Pat run trips to the Silk Route region: <a href="http://www.silkroad.co.nz/" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: none;">http://www.silkroad.co.nz/</a>. Today, commercial skiing in Afghanistan may soon be a possibility. Let me tell you the story.<br /><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pEc8tpfCI/AAAAAAAAFkU/ERm3lglM3oU/s1600/Pic00+(13).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pEc8tpfCI/AAAAAAAAFkU/ERm3lglM3oU/s640/Pic00+(13).jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="436" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Mette-Sophie, a Norwegian aid worker accompanied me on one trip in January 1996 into the Hindu Kush. She was on cross country skiis and I used traditional skii's with touring bindings. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br /><br />No foreigners had climbed in Afghanistan since the Soviets arrived in late 1978. I had heard about the passes and valleys strewn with land mines so it was with some trepidation I embarked from Kabul in October 1994 on what was probably the first expedition into the Hindu Kush for at least 17 years. I travelled with two British climbers, Ian Clarke and John Tinker, to the Chamar valley for an attempt on Mir Samir, a peak made famous by Eric Newby in his book, A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-LBd11XU9uCo/TXJA3e0OpMI/AAAAAAAAG7A/XiRnY-sXw80/s1600/Bob+Afgh+mount.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="257" l6="true" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-LBd11XU9uCo/TXJA3e0OpMI/AAAAAAAAG7A/XiRnY-sXw80/s400/Bob+Afgh+mount.jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="400" /></a></div><strong>John Tinker (right) and I at on one of our camps in the Chamar valley on the way to Mir Samir. Photo: Ian Clarke</strong><br /><br />Tinker was fresh off an ascent of Everest by a new route on the north side and Clarke was head of a British Mine clearance organisation (Halo trust) in Afghanistan and was a necessary companion as the area had received large amounts of small scatterable mines, dropped from Soviet aircrafts to prevent the freedom fighters crossing the mountain passes. Our safety was dependent on his knowledge of mines and where battles had taken place. Tinker and Clarke attempted an unclimbed face on Mir Samir and got surprising high considering the unseasonably soft snow that had fallen. While the others were attempting Mir Samir, I climbed an unnamed peak around 5000 metres and looked over to the enticing mountains of Nuristan, formerly Kafirstan. As I sat on this probably unclimbed, and unnamed peak, I thought to myself " this is skiing country and what huge ptential."<br /><br />. It was this trip with Clarke and Tinker that gave me the confidence to venture out on further climbing and skiing trips.<br /><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pEpCrgZ6I/AAAAAAAAFkc/SF0vStovmmk/s1600/Pic00+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="432" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pEpCrgZ6I/AAAAAAAAFkc/SF0vStovmmk/s640/Pic00+(3).jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="640" /></a><br /><br /><strong>On skiis in the Hindu Kush, near the Salang Pass. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br /><br />From 1993-96 when I lived in Kabul, on Friday, the only day off during the week, it was possible to climb among the various 4000 metres peaks in the Paghman range from where you get spectacular views of the Hindu Kush and Hazarajat area. Climbing 4000 metre peaks in a day made living in Kabul a joy. Also for the enthusiastic skier, a two hour drive takes you to the Salang Pass at 3,878 metres an excellent ski-mountaineering area. My good friend Ian Clarke the mine clearance expert gave the opinion that when the area is likely to have land-mines, if it is covered with snow, and you are on skis, it is almost impossible to trigger of a mine as the body-weight is evenly distributed. Clarke did a lot of telemark skiing in the area between 1993 and 1995 in the Salang Pass are before taking up a ski-instructors job at Cadrona, near Wanaka, for the New Zealand winter of 1995.<br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pE1f2E9mI/AAAAAAAAFkk/vYsVzddslm8/s1600/Pic00+(17).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pE1f2E9mI/AAAAAAAAFkk/vYsVzddslm8/s640/Pic00+(17).jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="442" /></a><br /><br /><strong>So in 1995, I started skiiing in the Hindu Kush, not far from the Salang Pass, which was an hour and a half from Kabul. Above on skiis with the mighty Hindu Kush behind me. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pFJEx35MI/AAAAAAAAFks/KeRvkjg-5xU/s1600/Pic00+(21).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><strong><img border="0" gu="true" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pFJEx35MI/AAAAAAAAFks/KeRvkjg-5xU/s640/Pic00+(21).jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="428" /></strong></a><br /><br /><strong>Mette-Sphie on her cross country skiis in the Hindu Kush. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pFZ51WuHI/AAAAAAAAFk0/3CXuZMqfqQo/s1600/Pic00+(23).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="436" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pFZ51WuHI/AAAAAAAAFk0/3CXuZMqfqQo/s640/Pic00+(23).jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="640" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Good snow conditions and a wonderful mountain backdrop, the mighty Hindu Kush: Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pFo_onYmI/AAAAAAAAFk8/xsXgEzjKjGE/s1600/Pic00+(25).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pFo_onYmI/AAAAAAAAFk8/xsXgEzjKjGE/s640/Pic00+(25).jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="436" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Mette Sophie skiing down from the Salang Pass. January 1996. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pF7peqoKI/AAAAAAAAFlE/U5hN6q3auf4/s1600/Pic00+(34).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" gu="true" height="422" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/S_pF7peqoKI/AAAAAAAAFlE/U5hN6q3auf4/s640/Pic00+(34).jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="640" /></a><br /><br /><strong>The author, Bob McKerrow, skiing near the Salang Pass. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br /><br />Last week I came across this article in the Guardian written by Jon Boone <a href="http://guardian.co.uk/" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: none;">guardian.co.uk</a>, Tuesday 27 April 2010 and I was delighted that commercial skiing may soon become possible in the Hindu Kush at Bamiyan.<br /><br /><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LMaYXkH7DGs/TWEai8LniNI/AAAAAAAAG34/2fOf5NomF0E/s1600/The-Bamiyan-valley-006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" height="240" j6="true" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LMaYXkH7DGs/TWEai8LniNI/AAAAAAAAG34/2fOf5NomF0E/s400/The-Bamiyan-valley-006.jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block;" width="400" /></a><br /><br /><strong>The Bamiyan valley offers 'challenging skiing' reckons its first ski tourist after some hairy moments involving avalanches. Photograph: Chad Dear</strong><br /><br /><br /><br />In a classroom just a few hundred metres from the towering niche that once housed a giant Buddha statue, someone has pinned up a poster detailing the attributes of a good ski guide: optimistic, articulate, patient, reliable, active, cheerful, punctual and extroverted.</div><br />Sitting around a table in the middle of the room, the 10 young men who hope to become Afghanistan's first ski guides are being taught how to avoid avalanches, and the importance of taking enough food and water on trips up the snow-capped mountains that loom over the town of Bamiyan.<br /><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><br />They have all the poster's key attributes in spades. Indeed, it's hard to think of a more agreeable bunch of enthusiastic young men, who chatter in excellent English. The only problem is the one characteristic they all lack: the ability to ski.<br /><br />Last week, they had their first taste of the rapidly melting spring snow, out on the slopes of the stunning Koh-e-Baba mountain range. Their motley collection of borrowed and secondhand skis had been carted up the lush valley on the back of a donkey. The rookie skiers had ignored the classroom guidance to layer up, and hit the slopes wearing jeans and fake designer tops. Soon they were shivering.<br /><br />They had just half a dozen pairs of skis, two pairs of which were borrowed from an American couple, Chad Dear and Laurie Ashley, ski consultants who believe central Afghanistan has some of the best "outback skiing" in the world. The shortage of equipment is a problem, and the mix of Telemark and alpine skis had been partly supplemented by a few pairs of "bazaar skis", lethal wooden planks knocked up by enthusiastic local carpenters. With the bindings little more than a few leather straps and the undersurface wrapped with metal, the overall effect is terrifying, as I discovered when I tried them.<br /><br />"Jon, you've never done this either!" was the crushing verdict of Abdullah Mahmood, a 25-year-old novice skier, after he had watched me flounder around for a traumatic 10 minutes during which I wondered whether, despite decades of skiing experience, the sport was finally about to claim a broken leg from me.<br /><br />These are the deeply humble beginnings out of which Bamiyan, an overished but heart-stoppingly beautiful province, hopes to develop a robust ski industry. There is serious weight behind the plan to encourage winter "ecotourism" here, including the province's governor, the Aga Khan Development Network and the New Zealand government (the country has troops in the province).<br /><br />Dear, a development worker from Montana, says that in a few years' time Bamiyan could boast ski-rental businesses (which will probably rely, at least to start with, on the charity of the big ski manufacturers), a nursery slope with a simple tow-lift to drag beginners to the top, and maybe even some heliskiing. To start with, it is hoped that a mix of Afghans and foreigners working in Kabul will help pump-prime a ski industry, after which Bamiyan will be ready for the world. "We hope that people in Europe and the US will put it on their five-year wish list," Dear says.<br /><br />He and Ashley are currently spending several days a week exploring Bamiyan's unskied peaks, with the aim of publishing a guidebook later in the year giving adventure skiers some basic information on what the Koh-e-Baba range has to offer. And while it would be easy to be cynical about trying to establish skiing in a war zone, after spending a few days with Dear, Ashley and the would-be ski guides, I am soon swept up in their enthusiasm.<br /><br />For a particular type of tourist, Bamiyan is quite a draw. But it will never appeal to those who like the chairlifts, restaurants and creature comforts of a European or American mega-resort. In Bamiyan, if you want to get to the top of slope you have to propel yourself, using Telemark skis where the ankle is free to move up and down and synthetic skins are attached to the bottom. It's the sort of old-school skiing that would have been familiar to skiers in the Alps in the 1950s: a day of gruelling ascent for perhaps just one or two runs back down to the bottom. But it's worth it, says Dear: "The terrain here is just fantastic in so many ways, and we have only been exploring the eight valleys that are closest to Bamiyan centre. There are literally thousands of opportunities for beginners and experts."<br /><br />Dear thinks many tourists will elect to stay above the snowline for days, skiing over huge areas, overnighting in shelters used by farmers in the summer that could be converted into winter refuges. And it's a fair bet that Bamiyan's apres-ski scene will never boast beery Brits, downing glühwein at the bottom of the chairlifts as the sun sets over the mountains. Instead it's chai, and maybe some rice, naan and greasy meat on the roof of a farmer's house.<br /><br />What Dear calls the "apres-tea" experience would be worth a holiday in itself. First of all, the scenery is extraordinary. Below the snowy peaks, farmers living in mud houses busily plough their fields with ox teams. The sense of time travel is only broken with the occasional sighting of a satellite dish, a sign that, after years of neglect, things are starting to pick up here. And that is the other benefit of skiing in Bamiyan – contributing much-needed cash to subsistence farmers in the high, isolated valleys of a poor and neglected province that could use all the help it can get. Not only were the famous giant Buddhas blown up by the Taliban in 2001; the fundamentalist militia was also responsible for massacres of the largely Hazara population (Afghanistan's most put-upon ethnic group).<br /><br />Today Bamiyan is an island of security in a country where insurgency has spread like a virus, and the valley is Afghanistan's main (or rather, only) tourist attraction. Visitors don't come simply for the World Heritage site where the Buddhas used to stand, but also the lakes and extraordinary natural dams of Band-e-Amir. The young men who aspire to be ski guides already try to make ends meet by showing tourists the main sites in the summer.<br /><br />But despite Bamiyan's considerable charms, the summer tourism market does not add up to much: last year its historic sites were visited by 1,560 Afghans and 756 foreigners (slightly down on 2008, probably because of disruption caused by last year's presidential election). Even those low numbers generates around $250,000 a year in the three hotels the tourist authorities have information on.<br /><br />But Amir Foladi, manager of the Bamiyan ecotourism programme, wants to see that increase. He hopes that by 2015 the 116 hotel beds currently available will have increased to 1,000, creating at least 1,000 jobs. He expects 10,000 foreign visitors and 100,000 Afghans to come each year, generating around $5m for the valley, excluding income from drivers, restaurants and handicraft shops.<br /><br />That's big money for Bamiyan, and it would make tourism its third major source of income, behind agriculture and mining. "It's all about getting Bamiyan ready, helping hotel owners improve their facilities, so that when we are ready to receive more tourists it will be the people of Bamiyan who benefit and not outsiders," says Foladi.<br /><br />And the wind is in Bamiyan's sails, with various plans to make the valley more accessible. Currently there are two main land routes from Kabul: the slow but safe road via the Sibher Pass, which despite being only 200km [124 miles] takes a gruelling eight hours, or the relatively fast but potentially lethal four-hour road trip through Taliban territory to the south.<br /><br />The Sibher Pass route, which takes travellers through some unforgettable landscapes, is currently being flattened and widened by hundreds of workers, most of whom were last week inexplicably wearing fluorescent orange Royal Mail jackets. When the road is finished and covered with asphalt, the whole journey should take less than four hours – a much more attractive proposition for weekenders from Kabul who want a few days' skiing.<br /><br />The country's airlines are being lobbied to start commercial flights, which may one day land at a new airport out of town. That will replace the current dirt airstrip – among the hazards of flying into Bamiyan is livestock wandering on to the runway.<br /><br />And it's just possible that Bamiyan may get its Buddhas back – although this is currently the subject of a debate among conservationists, over whether the statues should be pieced back together from recovered fragments, or rebuilt afresh. Foladi says he favours the reconstruction of one Buddha, leaving one empty niche as a permanent reminder of unhappier times.<br /><br />But will Bamiyan ever become more than a summer destination, even with these improvements? Ken Adams, Bamiyan's first ever ski tourist, thinks so. A former ski industry worker in the French Alps, he is now a project manager for an NGO in Kabul. Paying just $30 a night for a hotel room, he skied for seven days in Bamiyan this spring. Despite some hairy moments involving avalanches, he reckons Bamiyan is the place for anyone who wants "some pretty challenging skiing".<br /><br />"For everyone else, there is just the sheer amount of snow and a season that in a normal year should continue until late May or early June," he says.<br /><br />The big unknown is whether Afghans will take up skiing in any numbers. Dear and Ashley say the locals, who are already fond of sledding on homemade yakhmolaks and other winter games, have been enthusiastic. With everything under snow for five months of the year, they could certainly do with more winter distractions, says Foladi.<br /><br />And skiing is not totally unknown in Afghanistan. Afghans got involved in the sport back in the 1960s and 70s, when it was last popularised by foreigners. In those days Kabul's diplomatic classes headed for the slopes at weekends at a mini-resort close to the capital. The piste even had its own basic rope-tow and was serviced by restaurants, tea shops and even a sunbathing area for the foreigners. Various ski clubs, including one run by the ministry of education and another by Kabul University, raced against each other. With the Soviet invasion of 1979, and the national resistance that rose up to fight it, the area was soon seeded with landmines and became unusable.<br /><br />Mohammad Yousuf Kargar first encountered skiing as a young boy when he saw a German employee of Siemens throwing himself down a hill in Kabul. He has kept the sport going, at least within his own family. Now the national football team coach, Kargar tested the slopes of Bamiyan for the first time this winter. But he believes Bamiyan is still too far away from Kabul to be the focus of a skiing rebirth. Instead he takes his family to the Salang, a mountain pass north of Kabul. "The government really needs to take a strong decision to redevelop the old piste outside Kabul," he says. "In the meantime I am taking my family in the Salang because I don't want this sport to die in Afghanistan."<br /><br />Even though Bamiyan is so untouched by violence that it feels like another country, Dear's hope that it might be ready for foreign visitors in five years seems optimistic at a time when the Taliban insurgency continues to strengthen.<br /><br />Around the time I was embarrassing myself on the wooden skis, Kandahar city was rocked by a massive vehicle bomb parked outside a hotel. I was blissfully unaware of another terrible day in Afghanistan's second city as we trudged down muddy fields towards our apres-ski lunch. Later that day, a compound housing foreign contractors was attacked by an even bigger bomb.<br /><br />Adams wonders whether it might be possible to fly into Kabul airport and then transfer directly on to a Bamiyan flight – essentially isolating the province from the rest of the country as far as foreign tourists are concerned. But, as Dear says, Bamiyan can only remain a bubble for so long. "You've just got to have hope that things are going to get better in Afghanistan. If the country goes down, Bamiyan will go with it.</div></div></div></div><div style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="post-footer" style="font-style: italic;"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="widget BlogArchive" data-version="1" id="BlogArchive1" style="margin: 12px 0px 0px;"><div class="widget-content" style="margin-top: 0.5em;"><div id="ArchiveList"><div id="BlogArchive1_ArchiveList"><ul class="hierarchy" style="border-width: 0px; list-style: none none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><li class="archivedate collapsed" style="background: none; border-width: 0px; line-height: 20.8px; list-style: outside none none; margin: 0.25em 0px; padding-left: 15px; text-indent: -15px;"><a class="toggle" style="background: transparent; color: inherit; cursor: pointer; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: bold;">► </a><a class="post-count-link" href="https://mountainsofourmind.blogspot.com/2007/?m=0" style="background: transparent; 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box-sizing: border-box; color: #669922; display: inline-block; font-weight: bold; max-width: 100%; min-height: 20px; padding-left: 20px; text-decoration-line: none;">Bob McKerrow - Wayfarer</a></dt></dl><a class="profile-link" href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724" rel="author" style="background: transparent; color: #669922; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: none;">View my complete profile</a><div class="clear" style="clear: both;"></div></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div>
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<script src="http://www.google.com/afsonline/show_afs_search.js" type="text/javascript"></script>Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-85226391980190316082021-07-21T21:28:00.002-07:002021-09-24T02:20:42.677-07:00Cordillera Vilcabamba 1968<span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">He hugged me then walked away from base camp as the towering peaks of the Cordillera Vilcabamba stood unmoved. That was almost 51 years ago and we have not seen each other since. Today he made contact with me.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gq0RrL0MO0Y/YPjxlf-nExI/AAAAAAABArI/I8wL08IIglEYdqqEXXy7eBNLRbgrHSOTQCLcBGAsYHQ/s753/Mellizos.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="750" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gq0RrL0MO0Y/YPjxlf-nExI/AAAAAAABArI/I8wL08IIglEYdqqEXXy7eBNLRbgrHSOTQCLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/Mellizos.jpg" /></a></div><br /></span>Photo: Our route on the North Face of Mellizos in red.<br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">For six weeks in 1968, J.E.S Lawrence was my climbing partner in the Cordillera Vilcabamba. I had just turned 20 and John was 10 years older than me and taught me so much about mountaineering as he had climbed in many of the mountain ranges of the world. He was my first mountain mentor. We did quite a few first ascents together with the most memorable being the first ascent of the North face of Mellizos.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">Here is what John wrote after the climb:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">"The hiss was changing now to a thunk and crash, as big stuff began to clean out our gully. The vertical sastrugi are so steep in the flutings that the sun acts as a sort of razor. When the ice blocks flew by, we would stop munching, and look at each other, and Bob would begin to mutter. We could see our red tiny tents clearly between our feet as we sat, in a kind of mockery. I thought it reminded me of being on a ship unable to make port, moored in the roads outside when you have a date and you can see the lights onshore and you wonder what she's doing.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">We sat on the ledge for hours, listening to the mountain shivering, watching the detritus rolling out down the face below. At some point, a hummingbird flew close on the face beside us, beak into tiny flowers, in a brilliant display of minuscule aerobatics, then gone in a flash as if it was never there. If only we had had those wings. We began timing the space between the chunks of ice. As the sun recedes from the face, you can almost hear the ice re-gelling, as the sound volume gets turned down. I was prepared to spend the night on the ledge if necessary… we had good gear and were in good shape. But after counting two or three 3-minute silences, and no big stuff for an hour, we decided to chance it. We descended as fast as we dared, on belay, ensuring our belay stances were always out of the direct fall line. I don’t think either of us has ever moved so fast over ice, and I count it among the more purely lucky episodes in my climbing </span><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px;">experience, but despite both of our mutual remonitions as to caution, we simply shot down, only bumped by the odd shot from above."</span><div class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl oo9gr5id gpro0wi8 lrazzd5p" role="button" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #050505; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: 600; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">See Less</div><div><div id="cse-search-results"></div>
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<script src="http://www.google.com/afsonline/show_afs_search.js" type="text/javascript"></script></div><div><div class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl oo9gr5id gpro0wi8 lrazzd5p" role="button" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #050505; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: 600; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><br /></div></div>Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-55396355351498792452021-06-29T17:51:00.004-07:002021-06-29T17:51:43.186-07:00Who was Diamond Jenness? A great New Zealand anthropologist.<span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">While New Zealanders fawned over the polar exploits of Scott, Shackleton and to a lesser extent, Mawson and Amundsen, a quiet and modest New Zealander was carving a career as an explorer and anthropologist in the Arctic starting in 1913. Over a career that spanned five decades, Diamond Jenness became one of the most distinguished anthropologists in the world.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Born on 10 February 1886 in Wellington, New Zealand, Diamond Jenness graduated from Victoria College in 1908 and then earned a master’s degree in anthropology from Oxford University. In 1911, he won an appointment as Oxford Scholar to Papua New Guinea, where he studied the Northern D’Entrecasteaux for 12 months. Upon his return to New Zealand his life took an unexpected turn when the Anthropological Division of the Geological Survey of Canada invited him to the Canadian Arctic Expedition (1913–1918) to study Inuinnait (Copper Inuit) living in the Coronation Gulf region — a population that had had limited contact with Europeans up to that point.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">He gained national and international acclaim for his meticulous descriptions of early post-contact Inuinnait (Copper Inuit) life in the Coronation Gulf region — research he began as a member of the 1913–1918 Canadian Arctic Expedition. In addition, Jenness was renowned for his archaeological discoveries of the ancient Dorset and Old Bering Sea cultures. He published over 100 books and articles on Inuit-state relations, ethnology, linguistics, archaeology and anthropology, including The People of the Twilight. Taken together, his publications are considered one of the most comprehensive descriptions of an Inuit group ever written.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Jenness spent the first year of the 1913-18 expedition on the Alaskan coast, learning Iñupiaq (an Inuit language) and conducting archaeological excavations on Barter Island. He travelled to Coronation Gulf in the summer of 1914 with expedition the CAE’s Southern Party, where he studied Inuinnait culture for the next two years. He learned another Inuit language, Inuinnaqtun, and acquired an extensive collection of material culture, took hundreds of photographs and made sound recordings of Inuinnait songs and oral traditions. For months Jenness lived as the adopted son of Ikpukkuaq, a respected hunter, and his wife, Higilaq, on southwest Victoria Island. As he observed and recorded his adoptive family’s seasonal movements and social activities, Jenness participated in the hunting and fishing on which their lives depended and mastered the difficult skill of travelling by dog team. The extensive observations he made of Inuinnait traditional life laid the base for his later work and defined his career. Upon his return from the Arctic in 1916, Jenness’ academic career was put on hold when he enlisted in the Canadian field artillery and served during the First World War.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">After the war, Diamond Jenness returned to Canada, married Frances Eileen Bleakney and took up a position at the National Museum of Canada in 1920. He was promoted to Chief Anthropologist six years later and sought to expand the museum’s anthropological research and collections. He performed anthropological fieldwork with Indigenous groups in Northern Ontario, Alberta and British Columbia, drafted legislation vital to the protection of archaeological resources in the Northwest Territories, and served as president of the Society for American Archaeology in 1937, and the American Anthropological Association in 1939. Amidst his fieldwork and administrative duties, Jenness began his remarkable series of publications, which included the popular The Life of the Copper Eskimos (1922), The People of the Twilight (1928) and The Indians of Canada (1932).</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">In the mid-1920s, Jenness made his most significant contributions to the discipline of archaeology. In 1924, he examined a collection of artifacts found at Cape Dorset and Coats Island in Hudson Bay. Jenness concluded that the tool technology represented a new and distinctive culture in the Eastern Arctic, which he named Dorset. Although the academic community disputed his conclusion at the time, later investigations proved it correct. In 1926, his excavations at Cape Prince of Wales and Little Diomede Island in the Bering Strait resulted in his definition of the Old Bering Sea culture. Both discoveries significantly altered how scholars viewed the prehistory of the Arctic.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Second World War and Beyond</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">During the Second World War, Diamond Jenness served as Deputy Director of Intelligence for the Royal Canadian Air Force and chief of the Inter-Service Topographical Section of the Department of National Defence. After declining to serve as acting curator at the National Museum in 1946, Jenness organized and directed the Geographic Bureau in the Department of Mines, which collected geographic data on Canada. He retired from government service in 1948 and continued to research and publish extensively, including an economic history of Cyprus in 1962 and his five-volume work, Eskimo Administration, which explored Inuit-state relations in Alaska, Canada and Greenland.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Jenness often tried to influence government policy towards Canada’s Indigenous peoples, even serving as special consultant to the Indian Affairs Branch in the 1930s, and became even more vocal following the war. He criticized the government for the lack of education and employment opportunities it offered to Indigenous peoples across the country, particularly in the Arctic. Jenness became a vocal proponent of assimilation, the abolishment of separate “Indian” status and the liquidation of reserve lands, believing that only these actions would allow Indigenous peoples to enjoy the full benefits of Canadian citizenship — ideas that foreshadowed the infamous White Paper of 1969.</span><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hOTonY6R6Zg/YNu_aFj5KeI/AAAAAAABAgA/LMYC_2x2xzoPUa7vV3ZmrG95dwl-X_ccACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Jenness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="374" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hOTonY6R6Zg/YNu_aFj5KeI/AAAAAAABAgA/LMYC_2x2xzoPUa7vV3ZmrG95dwl-X_ccACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Jenness.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Photo: Diamond Jenness (left) and W.L. McKinley, magnetician and meteorologist, on board the Karluk, 1913. (RUDOLPH MARTIN ANDERSON / LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">A kind, quiet, modest man, Jenness was the recipient of five honorary degrees and was associated with many learned institutions in Canada and abroad, among them The Royal Canadian Geographical Society, whose Massey Medal he was awarded in 1962. In the fall of 1968, he was appointed a Companion of the Order of Canada, his country's highest honour. Diamond Jenness Peninsula on Victoria Island was named for him, and in 2004 NASA used his name to identify a rock on Mars explored by the rover Opportunity.</span></div><div><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">In 1990 when I was editor on the NZ Adventure Magazine, I communicated with Stuart Jenness, Diamond’s son and bought a copy of a book he wrote about his Father. In 1985 I retraced part of the trip Jenness did along the Alaskan coastline in 1913, and visited sites he explored on Barter Island. Clearly New Zealand’s greatest polar explorer who is hardly known here. Thanks to the Canadian Encyclopaedia for permission to quote from various sources.Diamond Jenness (left) and W.L. McKinley, magnetician and meteorologist, on board the Karluk, 1913.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;" /><br /><div class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl oo9gr5id gpro0wi8 lrazzd5p" role="button" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: white; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #050505; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: 600; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div id="cse-search-results"></div>
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<script src="http://www.google.com/afsonline/show_afs_search.js" type="text/javascript"></script></div>Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-81304810069041304142020-12-11T20:56:00.000-08:002020-12-11T20:56:56.675-08:00Saturday morning. Being a tourist in Christchurch<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I started my Saturday morning off by listening to Kim Hill interviewing Sarah Shieff<span style="color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif;">" about her new book 'Letters of Denis Glover.' "Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle" - many New Zealanders know Denis Glover as the author of the iconic poem "The Magpies". But there are better ones of the mountains such as Arawata Bill and the series in Sings Harry. No one writes about the mountains better than Glover. I met him in 1973 and was smart enough to get him to sign his latest book.</span></span><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As the interview outlined Glover as a poet, printer and publisher he also left behind a tarnished personal legacy, of womanising, drinking and a chaotic private life. Sounds familiar. Shieff </span><span style="font-size: large;">is </span><span style="font-size: medium;">hoping</span><span style="font-size: large;"> to widen our understanding of Glover beyond his flaws to include his wit, gift for friendship, and his bravery. </span><span style="font-size: large;">She's spent over 7 years reviewing thousands of letters. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: large;">After 10 am this morning I caught the bus to the Interchange and my first stop was Scorpio books. As I walked in a signboard said: </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><i style="font-size: large;">Books can be dangerous, The best ones should be labelled "This could change your life."</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: large;">The selection of books they have in stock in the lead up to Christmas is amazing. There were approximately 70 people in the shop and many </span><span style="font-size: medium;">walking</span><span style="font-size: large;"> up to the checkout with armfuls of books. Let no one tell me books are dead.</span><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stumbled across a new book by Fleur Adcock which is a collection of her poems. The first poem is such a tragic and romantic one which is called 'Flight With Mountains' (in memory of David Herron) David was a brilliant NZ academic and an equally good climber who died when an avalanche engulfed him on Aiguille d'Argentiere in 1960. He also did his PhD thesis on James McKerrow- Explorer and Surveyor. He was a good friend of Phil Houghton and Mike Gill.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then I said hello to my friends at 'Miss Saigon' and told them I would be back around 1 pm for a big bowl of Pho Bo.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></p><img alt="image.png" class="CToWUd a6T" data-image-whitelisted="" height="375" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0?ui=2&ik=1092a12759&attid=0.1&permmsgid=msg-a:r6649047575761481125&th=176552ce1709d5fc&view=fimg&sz=s0-l75-ft&attbid=ANGjdJ-rWTAesx9V2fxux3c6Z2YyixFczTIwplCxRyb3QGozwrgdeCNT3AIPTyqHMYOaRVIUjE3VP2LAF26pG0-VlmmR6MyuDb3_mzwmgH2GfmXrmeHTivCsfCCTUM8&disp=emb&realattid=ii_kil5inkt0" style="background-color: white; cursor: pointer; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" width="562" /><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Next I had a chat to Robert Scott (statue) en route to Adventure Books. I first met him there in July 1969 when I was training in Christchurch for some months at the old Geomagnetic Observatory in the Botanical gardens. He didn't nod, but I think he enjoys my chats that span 51 years. Then over the bridge to Worcester Blvd and on the Explorers Hub. It was nice to meet Thung and have a good chat. He's a good man. The shop or as Kipling would call it, The Wonder House, is looking good. I loved the penguin outside the shop to keep your sign company Bill Nye.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the way back to meet 'Miss Saigon' I sat by the Avon and dreamed of 'freedom.' Compared to the rest of the world, we are so free and we have good Governance. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Back at Miss Saigon I was able to 'show off ' my rusty Vietnamese and enjoy the company of three Vietnamese staff while they prepared my soup pictured above.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: "PT Serif", Georgia, serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then I stopped to talk to my old mate who lives on the streets in Ch Ch with his dog. He never begs, he just sits there and watches the world go by. He radiates a lot of humble wisdom. After browsing a few more shops, I caught the bus back to Northwood, where I bought a Lotto Ticket and two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. I've gotta win Lotto and see the world again next year.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; color: #404441; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.75em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: PT Serif, Georgia, serif;">S</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">o that was my outing today. I find it important to keep my diary up to date with ordinary days recorded.</span></span></p><div id="cse-search-results"></div>
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<script src="http://www.google.com/afsonline/show_afs_search.js" type="text/javascript"></script>Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-79823699767324274052020-03-19T19:41:00.000-07:002020-03-19T19:41:06.587-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<figure class="media-landscape has-caption full-width lead" style="background-color: #111111; border: 0px; clear: both; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 32px -54.225px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="image-and-copyright-container" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="Dr Catherine Hamlin with staff and cured fistula patients in Addis Ababa, 2008" class="js-image-replace" data-highest-encountered-width="660" height="549" src="https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/660/cpsprodpb/11F9A/production/_111362637_hamxx.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #bdbdbd; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: auto; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; user-select: none; vertical-align: baseline; width: 645.775px;" width="976" /><span class="off-screen" style="border: 0px; clip: rect(1px , 1px , 1px , 1px); color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: 1px; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; vertical-align: baseline; width: 1px;">Image copyright</span><span class="story-image-copyright" style="background: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.6); border: 0px; bottom: 0px; color: #ececec; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.75rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.25px; line-height: 1.33333; margin: 0px; padding: 3px 8px 1px; position: absolute; right: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">GETTY IMAGES</span></span><figcaption class="media-caption" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; visibility: visible;"><span class="off-screen" style="border: 0px; clip: rect(1px , 1px , 1px , 1px); color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: 1px; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; vertical-align: baseline; width: 1px;">Image caption</span><span class="media-caption__text" style="border: 0px; color: #ececec; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.8125rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.23077; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr Catherine Hamlin with staff and cured fistula patients in Addis Ababa in 2008</span></figcaption></figure><br />
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No-one came to meet Catherine Hamlin the day she arrived at a tiny airport in Ethiopia in 1959.</div>
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More than 60 years later, the news of the Australian gynaecologist’s death at the age of 96 was met with an outpouring of grief in the country she had made her home.</div>
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That is because of the work Dr Hamlin - along with her late husband, Reginald - did transforming and, in some cases, saving the lives of tens of thousands of women who had been cast out of their communities.</div>
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Treating obstetric fistulas - a preventable injury sustained in childbirth that leaves women incontinent and can lead to other infections - would become her life’s work.</div>
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"These are the women most to be pitied in the world," <a class="story-body__link-external" href="https://www.nytimes.com/2003/05/16/opinion/alone-and-ashamed.html?auth=linked-google" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(17, 103, 168, 0.3); border-bottom-color: rgb(220, 220, 220); border-bottom-style: solid; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr Hamlin told the New York Times in 2003</a>.</div>
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"They're alone in the world, ashamed of their injuries. For lepers, or Aids victims, there are organisations that help. But nobody knows about these women or helps them."</div>
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<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a class="story-body__link" href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-26466652" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(17, 103, 168, 0.3); border-bottom-color: rgb(220, 220, 220); border-bottom-style: solid; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The 'cursed' women living in shame</a></li>
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Elinor Catherine Nicholson was born in Sydney in 1924, one of six children. She decided to train to be a doctor because she wanted to help women and children.</div>
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After she completed her training, she began work at Crown Street Women’s Hospital, where she met a doctor from New Zealand, Reginald Hamlin.</div>
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They were married in 1950, and had a son, Richard, two years later.</div>
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'We never came back'</h2>
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But the two wanted to go and work in a developing nation, and one day an advert in British medical journal The Lancet caught their eye.</div>
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"It just read 'gynaecologist wanted in Ethiopia, Addis Ababa'," Dr Hamlin told the BBC in 2016. It was enough to pique their interest, and the couple applied.</div>
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"We felt we would like to do something to help people in the world, because we had had so many advantages," Dr Hamlin explained.</div>
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The idea was to stay for a couple of years. "But we never came back."</div>
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So they set off from Sydney, sending a cable from the middle of the Indian Ocean to let their new colleagues know of their imminent arrival. It didn’t quite go according to plan.</div>
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"The cable didn’t get there until three weeks after we did, so there was nobody to meet us."</div>
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<figure class="media-landscape has-caption full-width" style="background-color: #111111; border: 0px; clear: both; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 24px -24.6375px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="image-and-copyright-container" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="Reg (L) and Catherine (R) Hamlin on a visit to Australia in 1971" class="responsive-image__img js-image-replace" data-highest-encountered-width="624" datasrc="https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/320/cpsprodpb/D17A/production/_111362635_hamlin.jpg" height="549" src="https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/624/cpsprodpb/D17A/production/_111362635_hamlin.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #bdbdbd; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: auto; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; transition: opacity 0.2s ease-in 0s; user-select: none; vertical-align: baseline; width: 616.188px;" width="976" /><span class="off-screen" style="border: 0px; clip: rect(1px , 1px , 1px , 1px); color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: 1px; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; vertical-align: baseline; width: 1px;">Image copyright</span><span class="story-image-copyright" style="background: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.6); border: 0px; bottom: 0px; color: #ececec; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.75rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.25px; line-height: 1.33333; margin: 0px; padding: 3px 8px 1px; position: absolute; right: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">GETTY IMAGES</span></span><figcaption class="media-caption" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; visibility: visible;"><span class="off-screen" style="border: 0px; clip: rect(1px , 1px , 1px , 1px); color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: 1px; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; vertical-align: baseline; width: 1px;">Image caption</span><span class="media-caption__text" style="border: 0px; color: #ececec; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.8125rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.23077; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Reginald (L) and Catherine (R) Hamlin during a visit to Australia in 1971</span></figcaption></figure><br />
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But they soon settled in, and it wasn’t long before they began to notice a number of women with a condition they had never seen before: obstetric fistula.</div>
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"We were touched and appalled by the sadness of our first fistula patient: a beautiful young woman in urine-soaked ragged clothes, sitting alone in our outpatients department away from the other waiting patients," <a class="story-body__link-external" href="https://www.theguardian.com/global-development-professionals-network/2014/may/23/fistula-women-ethiopia" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(17, 103, 168, 0.3); border-bottom-color: rgb(220, 220, 220); border-bottom-style: solid; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr Hamlin later recalled to the Guardian</a>.</div>
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"We knew she was more in need than any of the others."</div>
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Two million women live with the condition globally, mostly in sub-Saharan Africa and South Asia.</div>
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Without help, many die. Those who survive - like the woman in the waiting room - are left with injuries that leave them incontinent, sometimes heavily.</div>
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In Ethiopia many were left with a deep sense of shame. They found themselves banished to the outskirts of their communities, abandoned by their husbands. The stigma and social isolation led some to end their lives.</div>
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'I felt so happy'</h2>
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But the Hamlins knew it was both fixable and preventable - as they told Ethiopia's then ruler, Haile Selassie.</div>
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"He said, why do my women get this terrible thing where they can’t control their body waste?" Dr Hamlin told the BBC.</div>
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"We said, it is nothing to do with your women, it is to do with your lack of doctors in the countryside when they need to have a Caesarian section."</div>
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Mamitu Gashe was one of the women who Dr Hamlin and her husband treated in the early days, when they worked at Princess Teshai Hospital.</div>
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It was 1962, and Mamitu had suffered a fistula giving birth to her first child. It was a three-day labour, and the baby did not survive.</div>
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<figure class="media-landscape has-caption body-width" style="background-color: #111111; border: 0px; clear: both; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 24px -24.6375px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="image-and-copyright-container" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="Dr Hamlin with Mamitu Gashe in 1994" class="responsive-image__img js-image-replace" data-highest-encountered-width="624" datasrc="https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/320/cpsprodpb/8742/production/_111362643_chs.jpg" height="261" src="https://ichef.bbci.co.uk/news/624/cpsprodpb/8742/production/_111362643_chs.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #bdbdbd; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: auto; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; transition: opacity 0.2s ease-in 0s; user-select: none; vertical-align: baseline; width: 616.188px;" width="464" /><span class="off-screen" style="border: 0px; clip: rect(1px , 1px , 1px , 1px); color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: 1px; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; vertical-align: baseline; width: 1px;">Image copyright</span><span class="story-image-copyright" style="background: rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.6); border: 0px; bottom: 0px; color: #ececec; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.75rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: 0.25px; line-height: 1.33333; margin: 0px; padding: 3px 8px 1px; position: absolute; right: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">GETTY IMAGES</span></span><figcaption class="media-caption" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; visibility: visible;"><span class="off-screen" style="border: 0px; clip: rect(1px , 1px , 1px , 1px); color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: 1px; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; vertical-align: baseline; width: 1px;">Image caption</span><span class="media-caption__text" style="border: 0px; color: #ececec; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.8125rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.23077; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr Hamlin with Mamitu Gashe in 1994</span></figcaption></figure><br />
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Like so many other women in Ethiopia, she was left incontinent. But she had a sister in the capital, and her family took her to the city to find help.</div>
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It was then they discovered the Hamlins’ specialist ward.</div>
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"As soon as I arrived there, they treated me with compassion and I started to feel much better," she told the BBC after she was named one of the BBC's 100 Women 2018.</div>
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“They told me that I was not the only one suffering from this, that other women had this. As soon as they said that, I felt hopeful, I felt so happy."</div>
<ul class="story-body__unordered-list" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 18px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a class="story-body__link" href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-46225037" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(17, 103, 168, 0.3); border-bottom-color: rgb(220, 220, 220); border-bottom-style: solid; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;">BBC 100 Women 2018: Who is on the list?</a></li>
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But the Hamlins would not only help repair the damage; they also gave Mamitu - who has no formal education - a new career: she is now an internationally respected fistula surgeon, having been taught by the Hamlins.</div>
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"I couldn’t read or write," she explained in 2018. "Everything I knew, I knew from the Hamlins."</div>
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Mamitu was one of the staff members the Hamlins took to Addis Ababa Fistula Hospital when it opened in 1974.</div>
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'She broke our hearts'</h2>
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In 1993, Dr Hamlin lost her beloved husband. Faced with a choice to stay or leave, she decided her work was not yet done.</div>
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In the following years, the Hamlin Foundation opened five rural hospitals offering healthcare to women, as well as a facility for long-term care patients. Then, in 2007, Dr Hamlin saw one of her initial dreams finally fulfilled: the Hamlin College of Midwives opened.</div>
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<figcaption class="media-with-caption__caption" style="border: 0px; color: #ececec; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.8125rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.23077; margin: 0px; padding: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; visibility: visible;"><span class="off-screen" style="border: 0px; clip: rect(1px , 1px , 1px , 1px); color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: 1px; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; vertical-align: baseline; width: 1px;">Media caption</span>The BBC's Tulip Mazumdar reports from Uganda on UK doctors helping those living with fistula. Contains images of surgery</figcaption></figure><br />
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It is thought the organisation has treated more than 60,000 women for obstetric fistulas over the decades.</div>
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But in spite of these successes, Dr Hamlin was still disappointed at how little had been achieved,</div>
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"We had one little girl not too long ago, who had terrible injuries," <a class="story-body__link-external" href="https://www.unfpa.org/news/interview-dr-catherine-hamlin-pioneer-fighting-fistula" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(17, 103, 168, 0.3); border-bottom-color: rgb(220, 220, 220); border-bottom-style: solid; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;">she told the UN’s World Food Programme in 2011</a>.</div>
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"She had been lying curled up for nine years on the floor on a mat. Her mother had been looking after her, thinking perhaps that the urine would dry up. She was in a state of malnutrition, 22kg (48lb), as she was carried on the back of her poor old mother, coming into the hospital.</div>
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"She broke our hearts."</div>
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<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a class="story-body__link" href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-34908233" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(17, 103, 168, 0.3); border-bottom-color: rgb(220, 220, 220); border-bottom-style: solid; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fighting fistula: Razia's brave recovery from pregnancy nightmare</a></li>
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And so, Dr Hamlin continued her fight for the women of Ethiopia to the end.</div>
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Last year, Ethiopia's Nobel Prize-winning Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed handed her a prestigious citizenship award - one of many she was given during her lifetime. Then, in January, she celebrated her 96th birthday. Mamitu was by her side.</div>
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“We called Catherine mum, because she is like our mother,” <a class="story-body__link" href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p079dvqh" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(17, 103, 168, 0.3); border-bottom-color: rgb(220, 220, 220); border-bottom-style: solid; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;">she explained to the BBC last year</a>.</div>
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Dr Hamlin died on 18 March at her home in Addis Ababa, the place she made her home. She left behind her son, grandchildren and a dream she wants others to fulfil in her memory.</div>
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"My dream is to eradicate obstetric fistula. Forever," she said.</div>
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"I won’t do this in my lifetime, but you can in yours."</div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">More on fistula</strong></div>
<ul class="story-body__unordered-list" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 18px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;">Occurs as a result of obstructed labour causing a hole in the bladder and/or bowel</li>
<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;">Patient is constantly leaking urine and/or faeces</li>
<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;">In most cases where it occurs, the baby dies during childbirth</li>
<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;">Two million women living with the condition globally, mostly in sub-Saharan Africa and South Asia</li>
<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;">Up to 100,000 new cases globally each year</li>
<li class="story-body__list-item" style="border: 0px; color: inherit; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1rem; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: 1.375; list-style: outside square; margin: 18px 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px; vertical-align: baseline;">Condition is entirely preventable and treatable</li>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-64934706262001532512019-10-03T21:24:00.000-07:002019-10-03T21:24:13.267-07:00Anton Coberger - Obituary<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Obituary - Anton Coberger</span></h4>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I was saddened to read in the Star today that Anton Coberger died on 21 September. Anton will be remembered for his contribution to skiing and the Coberger mountaineering and skiing shop in Cramner Square. Anton and his siblings lived in Arthurs Pass and did their schooling by correspondence and were very active members of the ski club at Temple Basin. Many of us have fond memories of his father Oscar, who was also a very active skier and climber and buying equipment from Osc</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">ar and Anton. His daughter, Annelise became the first Southern Hemisphere athlete to win a medal at the Winter Olympics when she won a silver in the slalom at the 1992 games. In 2004 his very close friend and leading NZ climber of the 60s and 70s Lyn Crawford died and Anton wrote a very moving obituary for Lyn in the 2004 NZAJ and detailed the many climbs they did in their twilight years. R.I.P Anton.</span><br />
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-40991155197112383362019-10-01T19:02:00.002-07:002019-10-01T19:04:24.262-07:00Second Kiwi to reach Mt Everest summit looks back on triumph and tragedy exactly 40 years on<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>It was 40 years ago today that Nick Banks became the 2nd New Zealander to climb Mount Everest. I remember in 1972 while working at Aoraki Mount Cook in the mountain rescue team, getting a callout saying a group of young Taranaki climbers had traversed Mt Cook from Plateau hut, and one fell through a cornice on the summit ridge and pierced his thigh. The guy who was supposedly injured was Nick Banks. They were a very competent team and they had wrapped up the wound in Nick's thigh and when we came across him he was descending quite normally. That was the first time I met Nick and of course he went on to greater climbing feats. <u>Nick is standing in the middle of the photo in a reddish shirt. Photo: Bob McKerrow</u></b><br />
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<img alt="Former New Plymouth climber Nick Banks was the second Kiwi to reach the summit of Mt Everest. His successful ascent on October 2, 1979 came 26 years after Edmund Hillary. " class="sics-component__story-image__image--not-gallery" height="224" sizes="(min-width: 841px) 748px, 100vw" src="https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.710x400.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg" srcset="https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.320x180.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 320w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.380x214.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 380w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.418x235.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 418w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.620x350.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 620w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.620x349.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 620w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.710x400.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 710w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.1240x700.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 1240w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/8/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.1420x800.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 1420w" style="border-style: none; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; max-width: 100%;" width="400" /></div>
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Former New Plymouth climber Nick Banks was the second Kiwi to reach the summit of Mt Everest. His successful ascent on October 2, 1979 came 26 years after Edmund Hillary.</div>
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Nick Banks says the day he reached the top of the world's highest peak was the best he ever had in the mountains.</div>
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But, unbeknown to him, the triumph would be tinged with tragedy.</div>
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On October 2, 1979, Banks, now living in Wales, became the second New Zealander, and the 100th person, to climb Mt Everest after Sir Edmund Hillary in 1953.</div>
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Up until then, Banks, a former New Plymouth man, had never climbed a peak higher than Aoraki/Mt Cook.</div>
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He planned to remember the 40th anniversary of the feat at with friends and family in North Wales, where he has lived for the past 33 years with wife Lindsay, and owned a guiding business and a cafe. "I may even have half a shandy," he said by email.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<figure class="sics-component__story-image" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 0.94118rem; margin: 1em -68px 1.5em; max-width: 1150px; padding-top: 0.7rem; position: relative; vertical-align: top;"><div class="sics-component__story-image__image-wrapper" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: inherit; overflow: hidden; text-align: center; width: 748px;">
<img alt="Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay were the first people to reach the summit of Mt Everest in 1953." class="sics-component__story-image__image--not-gallery" sizes="(min-width: 841px) 748px, 100vw" src="https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.710x400.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg" srcset="https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.320x180.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 320w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.380x214.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 380w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.418x235.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 418w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.620x350.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 620w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.620x349.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 620w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.710x400.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 710w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.1240x700.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 1240w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/4/k/s/c/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.1420x800.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 1420w" style="border-style: none; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; max-width: 100%;" /></div>
<figcaption class="sics-component__caption" style="box-sizing: inherit; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 8px;"><div class="sics-component__caption__top-line" style="box-sizing: inherit; display: flex; margin: 0px 0px 5px;">
<span class="sics-component__caption__icon-text" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #9f9f9f; display: block; font-size: 0.88235rem; height: 1em; line-height: 1; margin-left: 0.75em; text-transform: uppercase; width: 364.625px;"></span><cite class="sics-component__caption__producer" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #a2aeb4; display: block; font-size: 10px; font-style: normal; height: 1em; line-height: 1; margin-left: 0.75em; text-align: right; text-transform: uppercase; width: 364.625px;">SUPPLIED / WEB</cite></div>
<div class="sics-component__caption__caption" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgb(235, 238, 240); box-sizing: inherit; color: #73787b; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.41176em; padding: 0px 0px 0.58824em; width: 748px;">
Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay were the first people to reach the summit of Mt Everest in 1953.</div>
</figcaption></figure><div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Most people can name the first New Zealander to climb Mt Everest but few pick Banks' name as the next Kiwi to reach the top of the 8448m Himalayan summit.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
The former Spotswood College pupil achieved the feat as part of an eight-strong West German-led party.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
However, the expedition was touched by tragedy, with two of the climbers dying on the way down from the summit.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Since then another 49 New Zealanders have made the ascent, including two from New Plymouth - Andy Harris, who died while descending Everest in 1996, and Julian Haszard in 2004.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Few of Banks' expedition party will be at the 40th reunion, with most of the 13 climbers and Sherpas now dead, Banks said.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
In an interview in 2004, Banks said climbing high peaks was a balancing act between "being afraid and staying cool, even though you know you're going a little bit crackers".</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
It helped to be a bit of a daredevil and be mentally tough, he said.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
"Some people thrive while others hate it. The experience can only be enjoyed when it is all over."</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Looking back on his Everest climb, Banks a retired mountain guide, said he only climbed for the views, and the physical and psychological challenge.</div>
<figure class="sics-component__story-image" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: 0.94118rem; margin: 1em -68px 1.5em; max-width: 1150px; padding-top: 0.7rem; position: relative; vertical-align: top;"><div class="sics-component__story-image__image-wrapper" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-sizing: inherit; overflow: hidden; text-align: center; width: 748px;">
<img alt="Nick Banks, with wife Lindsay, sailing in the Western Isles in Scotland this year. The couple have lived in North Wales since 1986.
" class="sics-component__story-image__image--not-gallery" sizes="(min-width: 841px) 748px, 100vw" src="https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.710x400.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg" srcset="https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.320x180.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 320w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.380x214.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 380w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.418x235.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 418w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.620x350.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 620w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.620x349.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 620w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.710x400.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 710w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.1240x700.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 1240w, https://resources.stuff.co.nz/content/dam/images/1/x/7/1/u/x/image.related.StuffLandscapeSixteenByNine.1420x800.1x46lu.png/1569964239104.jpg 1420w" style="border-style: none; box-sizing: inherit; display: inline-block; max-width: 100%;" /></div>
<figcaption class="sics-component__caption" style="box-sizing: inherit; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 8px;"><div class="sics-component__caption__top-line" style="box-sizing: inherit; display: flex; margin: 0px 0px 5px;">
<span class="sics-component__caption__icon-text" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #9f9f9f; display: block; font-size: 0.88235rem; height: 1em; line-height: 1; margin-left: 0.75em; text-transform: uppercase; width: 364.625px;"></span><cite class="sics-component__caption__producer" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #a2aeb4; display: block; font-size: 10px; font-style: normal; height: 1em; line-height: 1; margin-left: 0.75em; text-align: right; text-transform: uppercase; width: 364.625px;">SUPPLIED</cite></div>
<div class="sics-component__caption__caption" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgb(235, 238, 240); box-sizing: inherit; color: #73787b; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.41176em; padding: 0px 0px 0.58824em; width: 748px;">
Nick Banks, with wife Lindsay, sailing in the Western Isles in Scotland this year. The couple have lived in North Wales since 1986.</div>
</figcaption></figure><div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
"I don't have a spiritual bone in my body," said the 67-year-old, who spends most of his summers sailing in the Scottish Western Isles.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Banks first climbed Mt Taranaki when he was 12 and went on to be the first to scale the six ridges and six faces of Aoraki/Mt Cook, and qualify as an international mountain guide.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
But he had never climbed higher than Aoraki/Mt Cook before Everest, he said.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
He was still grateful in his early climbing experience to have a group of Taranaki Alpine Club mentors, including the late Colin Wright, Eric Larsen, Dave Clough, John Jordan, Ted Thompson, and George Mason, who took him "under their wing".</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Jordan said Banks was very skilled as a climber, and he was not surprised when Banks reached the summit of Everest.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
"He enjoyed challenges, he wasn't reckless and was always keen to develop his skills further."</div>
<span style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; padding-top: 0.7rem;"><div class="sics-component__story-video" style="box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: -68px; margin-right: -68px; max-width: 1150px;">
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<figcaption class="sics-component__caption" style="box-sizing: inherit; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 8px;"><div class="sics-component__caption__top-line" style="box-sizing: inherit; display: flex; margin: 0px 0px 5px;">
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<div class="sics-component__caption__caption" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgb(235, 238, 240); box-sizing: inherit; color: #73787b; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.41176em; padding: 0px 0px 0.58824em; width: 748px;">
Mountaineers from around the world have gathered in Nepal for the spring climbing season. Nearly 300 people have died attempting to climb Everest, but the mountain continues to draw climbers</div>
</figcaption></div>
</span><div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
In 1977 Banks was a member of the NZ Everest Expedition which reached the South Col, a sharp-edged pass between Mount Everest and Lhotse, the highest and fourth highest mountains in the world, respectively.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
The trip laid the foundations for the successful ascent two years later.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Banks became friends with Gerhard Schmatz and his wife Hannelore, who invited him to join their Everest expedition in 1979.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
In an NZ Alpine Journal article in 1980 Banks remembered the summit day was the best day he had ever spent in the mountains.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
The night before he had felt the summit was a possibility, and later on the climb to South Col, just under 8000m, he felt the battle with the mountain begin, he said.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Banks was in the second party to summit after Schmatz had led another party to the top the day before.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Thick cloudy conditions on the summit meant the the group could only spend 10 minutes taking photographs and shaking hands, before climbing down as their oxygen tanks emptied.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
The lack of views and "grim conditions" at the summit did not take away "the pleasure and relief of having made it", Banks said.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
He felt "pretty rapt" to be at the top but apprehensive about getting down.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Banks reached South Col camp four hours later and fell asleep.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
In Banks' group were Schmatz's wife, Hannelore, and American Ray Genet, who both tragically died on the descent when conditions deteriorated.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
Genet had decided to descend solo, while Schmatz who stayed with him when his oxygen ran out, later collapsed and died from exhaustion. </div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
All the climbers were experienced but the lack of oxygen, and the freezing temperatures bite at their hardest during a descent, and mistakes are made, Banks said.</div>
<div class="sics-component__html-injector sics-component__story__paragraph" style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0.7rem; padding: 0px;">
The conditions had been good and all the climbers were of a high standard "but sometimes that's no protection", he said.</div>
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Banks said he was reluctant to criticise anyone "who wants to do anything", including those who add Mt Everest to a lifetime bucket list.</div>
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"There is a lot of nonsense talked about the lack of experience and technical ability of people on Everest today," he said.</div>
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"The vast majority of them are very experienced and competent climbers.</div>
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"When I went to Everest first in 1977 I had never climbed anything higher than Mt Cook.</div>
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"I would question some people's behaviour on the mountain but when you get that many people anywhere a few of them are going to be bastards."</div>
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However he said the overcrowding on Everest was "ridiculous."</div>
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"It is just lack of will and lack of good management on the part of the Nepalese Government, and the totally ineffective liaison officer system," he said.</div>
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Banks would rather emphasise the big clean-up carried out by the Sherpas over the past years.</div>
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"Despite all the negative reports Everest is still an amazing place to be."</div>
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<span class="sics-component__byline__author" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.45; margin-bottom: 0px;">Thanks to Stuff for permission to reproduce the article and photos. Mike Watson</span><span class="sics-component__byline__date" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 400; line-height: 1.45; white-space: nowrap;">10:09, Oct 02 2019 </span>Stuff</div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-80856365341944868402019-09-29T14:56:00.002-07:002019-09-29T14:56:38.342-07:00Colin Aikman - Distinguished New Zealand Jurist and Diplomat.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l5GJ5nklQw0/XZEnXAyJWZI/AAAAAAAA5bU/Zur-SQtBDU87JhwXBR5FfHQjT0SYEg1IACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Aikman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l5GJ5nklQw0/XZEnXAyJWZI/AAAAAAAA5bU/Zur-SQtBDU87JhwXBR5FfHQjT0SYEg1IACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Aikman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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In 1975 while working for the International Red Cross in Nepal, I met Dr Colin Aikman the New Zealand Ambassador to Nepal, and High Commissioner to India and Bangladesh, when he visited. What a warm, friendly, helpful and highly experienced diplomat I remember him as. I recall a very entertaining dinner he put on for the small group of New Zealanders working in Kathmandu.</div>
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It wasn't until 60 years later, that I discovered in some declassified Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade documents an account by Colin Aikman of the Nuremberg trials. Dr Aikman, a Department of External Affairs lawyer who was accredited to attend the trials, went on to become one of this country's most distinguished jurists and diplomats.</div>
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.The International Military Tribunal, sitting in Nuremberg, tried 22 Nazi leaders.</div>
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Eleven were sentenced to death, three to life imprisonment, four given sentences of 10 to 20 years, and three were acquitted. Luftwaffe chief Hermann Goering committed suicide before his death sentence could be carried out.</div>
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"With the possible exception of Goering and [former Foreign Minister Joachim] von Ribbentrop, they are a very ordinary-looking set of old buffers," Dr Aikman reported back to New Zealand.</div>
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"As a general impression of all the prisoners, they are a bunch of second-rate men whom opportunism and the accidents of history have put in a position to perform first-rate atrocities," Dr Aikman wrote.<br />
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Colin died in 2002, aged 83. <span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: small;">Here is a link to an </span><a href="https://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=10395791" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">article</a><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: small;"> about Colin Aikman.</span><br />
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<header class="article-header photo-lead " style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px auto; max-width: 620px; position: relative; width: 620px;"><figure style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;"><figcaption class="closed" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #4c585d; float: left; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 5px 0px 10px;"><b>Nazi trial (from left, back) Doenitz, Raeder, Schirach, Saukel, Jodl, von Papen, Seyss-Inquart, Speer, von Neurath, Fritsche; (next row): Goering, Hess, Ribbentrop, Keitel, Rosenberg, Frank, Frick, Streicher, Funk, Schact</b></figcaption></figure></header></div>
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<span class="author author-space" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block;">By: <span class="" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Mike Houlahan</span></span></div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-18091523007046827092019-06-21T02:47:00.000-07:002019-06-21T02:49:02.877-07:00Mid-Winter's Day in Antarctica. 49 years ago.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>After four months at Scott Base, I arrived at Lake Vanda in January 1970 where I spent 10 months as a science technician. We celebrated mid-winter on 21 June 1970, some 49 years ago today .</b><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SQqUCUbw_qI/AAAAAAAAB9Q/okg5VY5Fsxg/s1600-h/Vanda032.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263181882101661346" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SQqUCUbw_qI/AAAAAAAAB9Q/okg5VY5Fsxg/s400/Vanda032.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 266px;" /></a><br />
<b>Left: Our laboratory at Vanda station. For electricity, we used a wind generator to charge our 12 volt Nicad batteries. When there was no wind, we would use a small Petter diesel generator. Photo: Bob McKerrow</b><br />
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On reflection, the 13 months I spent in Antarctica was among the best of my life.<br />
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I remember vividly the last helicopter leaving us in early February and we knew it would be at least nine months before we saw anyone else.<br />
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i spent the winter with three other people, and still today, this is the smallest NZ group to winter-over in Antarctica.<br />
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At the end of the long winter's night where it was totally dark for four months, I looked in the mirror and saw myself for the first time in five months. I wrote in my diary " A man without a woman about him is a man without vanity." <br />
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A few weeks later while reflecting on the winter, I wrote " I turned 22 in March, it is now September. During the past five months, I have got to know and understand my worst enemy, myself."<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNhgmoieXFI/AAAAAAAABy0/5dDyh1IJv8Q/s1600-h/Bull_Pass+and+Weright+Valley.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249051582533622866" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNhgmoieXFI/AAAAAAAABy0/5dDyh1IJv8Q/s400/Bull_Pass+and+Weright+Valley.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<b>The Wright Valley, View north through Bull Pass into Victoria Valley. The small stream flowing west (into Lake Vanda) is the Onyx.</b><br />
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<b></b><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNhgBBp07JI/AAAAAAAABys/17Q9obLdgl8/s1600-h/Wright-Valley-1957.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249050936440319122" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNhgBBp07JI/AAAAAAAABys/17Q9obLdgl8/s400/Wright-Valley-1957.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<b>The view of the Wright Valley taken from the survey station on the summit of Mt Newall (which now has a microwave tower on it).</b><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNjyq-aqq6I/AAAAAAAAB0M/YV708Nzfc3g/s1600-h/Frozen+beards.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249212185823587234" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNjyq-aqq6I/AAAAAAAAB0M/YV708Nzfc3g/s400/Frozen+beards.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<b>We did long trips on foot in the late Autumn, throughout the winter and early Spring. Bob McKerrow left and Gary Lewis right, with frozen beards and faces. Photo: Bob McKerrow</b><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNjwpVIHnoI/AAAAAAAABzE/ced3TUe3ue0/s1600-h/Bob+antarctica+2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249209958536814210" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNjwpVIHnoI/AAAAAAAABzE/ced3TUe3ue0/s400/Bob+antarctica+2.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="265" /></a><br />
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<b><b>Bath time at Vanda Station. Gary Lewis having a bath after six months Photo; Bob McKerrow</b></b><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNhcuOQ_n1I/AAAAAAAAByk/sVRJBGIgsUI/s1600-h/Vanda.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249047314873425746" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SNhcuOQ_n1I/AAAAAAAAByk/sVRJBGIgsUI/s400/Vanda.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<b>The old hand-painted sign outside Vanda Station</b><br />
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There was also the poem I wrote just before the long winter's night ended.<br />
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I journeyed south to an icy cage<br />
The sun never shone, there was no day<br />
When I looked into the jaws of night<br />
Far off I saw the threads of life<br />
Twisting themselves into an eternal web<br />
That stretched unbroken from dawn to death<br />
It was the Aurora that gladdened the eye<br />
A frenetic serpent that snaked the sky<br />
Pouring mellowed colours that sparkled rime<br />
On icy pendants soon to sublime.<br />
Yes high above towers all form<br />
Soon will come the first blush of dawn<br />
My life has changed my dash is done<br />
O welcome the King, O welcome the sun<br />
<b>So today I will raise a glass of red to my old comrades who I wintered over with at Vanda Station, in that remore dry valley in Antarctica: Gary Lewis, Tony Bromley and Harold Lowe.</b><script type="text/javascript">
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com69tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-12641634199337156162019-05-09T14:45:00.001-07:002019-05-09T14:45:12.534-07:00Mountain Film Festival hosts adventure greats<a href="https://www.thewanakasun.co.nz/news/8877-mountain-film-festival-hosts-adventure-greats.html?fbclid=IwAR3H3miog1tHIoRp1CG2wdT9HqMInlAQLP4f1XwdQEk1gp0gwHDjlxml0-g">Mountain Film Festival hosts adventure greats</a>: As a festival that started small and partly by accident, the NZ Mountain Film and Book Festival has become a Mecca for armchair—and...<br />
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<script src="http://www.google.com/afsonline/show_afs_search.js" type="text/javascript"></script>Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-70330257333485447342019-05-01T09:11:00.003-07:002019-05-01T09:11:14.204-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-59348448982310105342019-05-01T09:10:00.000-07:002019-05-01T09:10:11.900-07:00Climbing and Exploring in the Hindu Kush mountains = Afghanistan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today it was confirmed that I will be a guest speaker at the New Zealand Film and Book Festival to be held at Wanaka - Queenstown - Cromwell from June 28 to July 7, 2019; In preparation for my talks at the festival, I took time to update various climbs and expeditions I went on in Afghanistan during the period, 1993-1996.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRiEB36xuI/AAAAAAAADnE/UKzQRqvaumE/s1600-h/Mir.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315481281566000866" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRiEB36xuI/AAAAAAAADnE/UKzQRqvaumE/s400/Mir.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 263px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <strong>John Tinker (l) and Ian Clarke with Mir Samir in the background. The route they attempted was a ridge on the face just to the left of centre to the left of a small avalanche in a snow gulley: Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<strong>FROM THE AMERICAN ALPINE JOURNAL 1995</strong><br />
<em closure_uid_ynpzfq="1531">Mir Samir and ascent of P5000.</em> After years when it was too dangerous to enter the mountains of Afghanistan, New Zealander Bob McKerrow and Englishmen Ian Clarke and Jon Tinker headed for Mir Samir in the Hindu Kush. McKerrow is head of the International Red Cross in Afghanistan and Clarke is a former Royal Marine, now head of the Halo Trust mine clearance organisation in Afghanistan.<br />
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Tinker has worked in the country a number of times in the last seven years.The three climbers set out from Kabul on September 23, 1994, acclimatizing near the Salang Pass before setting out for Parian in the upper Panjchir.</div>
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There four horses were hired to carry food and equipment up the Chamar valley to base camp at 3,400 m. Clarke's skills were put to the test when the saw air-dropped scatterable anti-personnel mines.</div>
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They established a high camp at 4,300 m on September 29. Because of the deep snow, the two Englishmen made slow progress the next day to bivouac at 4,900 meters on an unclimbed snow route on the southwest face of Mir Samir. On October 1 they made While Clarke and Tinker were climbing Mir Samir, McKerrow climbed an unclimbed peak at approximately 5000 metres, a prominent feature when viewed from the Chamar Valley. a summit attempt.but unseasonable deep snow turned the back at 5200 meters, some 600 meters from the summit.(end of article from American Alpine Club Journal, 1995)</div>
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<strong closure_uid_7nvkdr="1633" closure_uid_bnjiez="1510">Above, the peak climbed solo by Bob McKerrow on 1 October 1994. The peak was named P5000 by the American Alpine Journal 1995. The photo is taken from the Chamar Valley. </strong> </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhUWyX9mI/AAAAAAAADmU/bTpmf1a_GYs/s1600-h/Mir+gun.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315480462546171490" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhUWyX9mI/AAAAAAAADmU/bTpmf1a_GYs/s400/Mir+gun.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 259px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <strong closure_uid_ynpzfq="1532">We spent a few nights in the Panjcher valley. This trigger-happy commander put us up for a few nights free. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhpQ1k05I/AAAAAAAADms/wSSweYxTbVk/s1600-h/Mir+Min.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315480821726237586" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhpQ1k05I/AAAAAAAADms/wSSweYxTbVk/s400/Mir+Min.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 259px;" /></a><br />
<strong>Tinker with parts of land mines which we found scattered through the region. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbqIows-RI/AAAAAAAADoM/gCh17h3SfpE/s1600-h/aaMirBob.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316193844258994450" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbqIows-RI/AAAAAAAADoM/gCh17h3SfpE/s400/aaMirBob.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 258px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong> Bob McKerrow (l) with John Tinker at Base Camp on Mir Samir. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRgnX9pbyI/AAAAAAAADlc/VCTX6d7GQo4/s1600-h/Mi+donk.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315479689767776034" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRgnX9pbyI/AAAAAAAADlc/VCTX6d7GQo4/s400/Mi+donk.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 260px;" /></a> <strong closure_uid_ynpzfq="1533">The donkey that carried our supplies in with Mir Samir in the background. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SUq6_pEheoI/AAAAAAAAC0w/k-i_COJMwFE/s1600-h/newby.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281239115564677762" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SUq6_pEheoI/AAAAAAAAC0w/k-i_COJMwFE/s400/newby.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 252px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 190px;" /></a><strong> I couldn't resist putting the photo of Eric Newby taken on their attempt on Mir Samir in 1956 and an extract from his obituary in the New York Times, October 24, 2006.</strong></div>
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Sixty-three years ago, in the summer of 1956, Mr Newby set out on the trip that would make him famous: a voyage by station wagon, foot and horseback to climb Mir Samir, a 20,000-foot peak in Nuristan, a wild region in northeastern Afghanistan. The fact that he had never climbed a mountain did not deter him in the slightest.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbpLY5Ty_I/AAAAAAAADn8/NFpkD_maiiI/s1600-h/aaMir.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316192792028105714" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbpLY5Ty_I/AAAAAAAADn8/NFpkD_maiiI/s400/aaMir.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 242px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong> Mir Samir. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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Mr. Newby chronicled the trip in “A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush,” published in Britain by Secker & Warburg in 1958 and in the United States by Doubleday the next year. As in all his work, the narrative was marked by genial self-effacement and overwhelming understatement.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRgop_wa3I/AAAAAAAADl8/5CbM_YVMH28/s1600-h/mir+bob.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315479711788329842" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRgop_wa3I/AAAAAAAADl8/5CbM_YVMH28/s400/mir+bob.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 259px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <strong>Bob McKerrow reading some pages from Eric Newby's A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush to children whose Grandfathers helped Newby. We retraced a large part of their journey, Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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Reviewing the book in The New York Times Book Review in 1959, William O. Douglas, a noted travel memoirist who by day was a justice of the United States Supreme Court, called the book “a chatty, humorous and perceptive account.” He added: “Even the unsanitary hotel accommodations, the infected drinking water, the unpalatable food, the inevitable dysentery are lively, amusing, laughable episodes.”<br />
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<strong closure_uid_ynpzfq="1535">Here is the article I wrote on various climbs in Afghanistan we did between 1993 and 1996..</strong><br />
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No foreigners have climbed in Afghanistan since the Soviets arrived in late 1978. I had heard about the passes and valleys strewn with land mines so it was with some trepidation I embarked from Kabul in October 1994 on what was probably the first expedition into the Hindu Kush for at least 17 years.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbqJKNDvqI/AAAAAAAADoc/3cuk6ZvTfqc/s1600-h/aamirRC.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316193853236297378" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbqJKNDvqI/AAAAAAAADoc/3cuk6ZvTfqc/s400/aamirRC.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 258px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong> Roads in the Hindu Kush are difficult to negotiate in winter. We are heading up to the Salang Tunnel which is the only tunnel through the Hindu Kush. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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I travelled with two British climbers, Ian Clarke and John Tinker, to the Chamar valley for an attempt Mir Samir, a peak made famous by Eric Newby in his book, A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. Tinker was fresh off an ascent of Everest by a new route on the north side and Clarke was head of a British Mine clearance organisation in Afghanistan and was a necessary companion as the area had received large amounts of small scatterable mines, dropped from Soviet aircrafts to prevent the freedom fighters crossing the mountain passes.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhp1XxtBI/AAAAAAAADm8/TJR8VLDsbVM/s1600-h/mir+vlarke.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315480831533364242" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhp1XxtBI/AAAAAAAADm8/TJR8VLDsbVM/s400/mir+vlarke.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 257px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <strong>Having lunch at our base camp with a bunch of Pashtoon soldiers returning from just being released from prison in the north, to their home in the east of Afghanistan, a journey of 400 km through remote wild mountain areas. John Tinker left, and Ian Clarke 3rd from left. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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Our safety was dependent on his knowledge of mines and where battles had taken place. Tinker and Clarke attempted an unclimbed face on Mir Samir and got surprising high considering the unseasonably soft snow that had fallen.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhUbnI1WI/AAAAAAAADmc/QNUhqh1stCY/s1600-h/Mir+left.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315480463841219938" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhUbnI1WI/AAAAAAAADmc/QNUhqh1stCY/s400/Mir+left.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 257px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong> The mountains to the extreme left of Mir Samir at the head of the Chamar Valley. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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While the others were attempting Mir Samir, I climbed an <strong>unnamed peak around 5000 metres</strong> and looked over to the enticing mountains of Nuristan, formerly Kafirstan. We explored a number of neighbouring regions with the hope of returning to do further climbing. .In June 1995 I did another trip was Clarke, crossing from the Panjcher valley to southern Badakshan by way of the 4260 m Anjuman Pass.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRgoa03HJI/AAAAAAAADl0/TzhyI4xXM_Y/s1600-h/Mir+Anju.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315479707716099218" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRgoa03HJI/AAAAAAAADl0/TzhyI4xXM_Y/s400/Mir+Anju.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 258px;" /></a><strong>Early 1995, Ian Clarke and I did another trip over the Anjuman Pass on a journey towards the Wakhan Corridor. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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It was a unique opportunity to explore this spectacular part of the Hindu Kush and check routes on the major peaks in the area ranging from 5900 to 6500 metres.<br />
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315480460322485042" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScRhUOgNMzI/AAAAAAAADmE/yxxxCiPh4Tk/s400/Mir+dub.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 257px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /><strong>A rather dubious group we came across. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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One of the best peaks in the area in Kohi Bandak. The highlight of the trip was when returning back over the Anjuman Pass when at about 3400 metres in high alpine pastures we met about 50 Kuchi (nomad) families on their annual journey to this area. Some were on the move, other camping in their black, low-slung goat hair tents. We passed strings of camels with babies and young children with intricately embroidered bonnets, tied on the backs.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbpMAojtgI/AAAAAAAADoE/CCN-o2UKX-s/s1600-h/aamirAnju.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316192802695263746" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbpMAojtgI/AAAAAAAADoE/CCN-o2UKX-s/s400/aamirAnju.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 257px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<strong>Camped at a lake on the northern side of the Hindu Kush. We crossed by Kotali Anjuman, the low pass on the right. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScY9gTC0xpI/AAAAAAAADnM/bY3AZ3Teu5E/s1600-h/kuchi+1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316004035234678418" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScY9gTC0xpI/AAAAAAAADnM/bY3AZ3Teu5E/s400/kuchi+1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 260px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<strong>Kuchi nomads wending their way through the Hindu Kush.</strong><br />
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Young girls with page-boy style hair cuts, flashed their shy blue eyes at us as we passed.<br />
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We stopped in tents to share pots of tea and watched how they cared for their animals. Young goats were inside the tent, sheltering from the hot sun, women tenderly carried young lambs in their arms, and an old lame sheep rode past on the back of a camel. Over the hillsides, women and children were gathering alpine herbs, wood, leaves and wild vegetables. Nearby an old woman was weaving a carpet. This is what the mountains of Afghanistan are about, tough friendly mountain people who have symbiotic relations with the hills. They name their children after the mountains, names such as ‘Kohzad’, the meaning of the mountains.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScY9n8l0emI/AAAAAAAADnU/Zyc1P8BhkC0/s1600-h/kuchis+on+move.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316004166646397538" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScY9n8l0emI/AAAAAAAADnU/Zyc1P8BhkC0/s400/kuchis+on+move.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 249px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<strong>Kuchi nomads on the move.</strong><br />
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Despite the warmth of the people, many disasters befall them. Thousands are killed annually by avalanches and landslides. In late March word reached Kabul that a massive landslides had hit the village of Qarluk, situated high in the mountains of Badakhshan.<br />
I was part of a Red Cross survey team that walked and rode by horse to the site. The whole village had been engulfed killing 350 people, all women and children. The landslide occurred at 11 am when the men and boys were out in the fields and the women. We arrived to find only one female survivor, 11 year old Gulnesa Beg, her arm broken in two places and with her good arm, hugging her father. A whole village wiped out by nature. Here we spent weeks running a relief operation to assist during the emergency phase and started helping these rugged Hazara people put their lives back together again.<br />
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In August this year (1996), the highlight of my time in Afghanistan was a trip to Nuristan, the legendary 'land of light'.</div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbqJZPX_hI/AAAAAAAADok/lewVvlRAT3c/s1600-h/aaNur.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316193857272544786" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbqJZPX_hI/AAAAAAAADok/lewVvlRAT3c/s400/aaNur.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 258px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong> Parun Valley, Nuristan. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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The Afghan Red Cross is establishing a medical clinic in the Parun valley and I went with our medical staff. Nuristan hugs the southern side of the Hindu Kush and is been isolated from the rest of the country. Six main valleys make up Nuristan each with their own language and for four to five months of the year, the mountain passes in and out of Nuristan are blocked. In is an area where snow panthers, wolves and fox thrive in forests almost untouched by human hand, this is paradise on earth. These blue-eyed and sometimes blond haired people claim they are either descendants of the original Aryans, while others say they are descendants of Alexander the Great. In 1895 they were forcibly converted to Islam and even today there are remnants of their former pagan past. Nuristani villages cling to mountainsides, sometimes perched on peak-tops. a legacy of the past to avoid invaders. Like the mountain Tajiks, the Nuristanis are true mountaineers. In 1889 George Robertson the author of the book ‘Kafirs of the Hindu Kush’, described the Nuristanis as" 'magnificent mountaineers<-"' because of their mountain skills, fitness and agility.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SUq7GYt2srI/AAAAAAAAC04/rJ5X9y4T1rs/s1600-h/Skiing_Hindu_Kush.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281239231433716402" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/SUq7GYt2srI/AAAAAAAAC04/rJ5X9y4T1rs/s400/Skiing_Hindu_Kush.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
<strong>Skiing near the Salang Pass. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbxrTAxLRI/AAAAAAAADo0/2g7XL4KXh4M/s1600-h/aamirtunnel.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316202136297614610" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbxrTAxLRI/AAAAAAAADo0/2g7XL4KXh4M/s400/aamirtunnel.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 257px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <strong>The northern entrance to the Salang Tunnel and the men who keep the road open. February 1996. Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<strong> </strong><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbpK4W8GuI/AAAAAAAADns/h0N7l7liTqw/s1600-h/aaMir+Base+camp.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316192783294012130" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbpK4W8GuI/AAAAAAAADns/h0N7l7liTqw/s400/aaMir+Base+camp.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 258px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong closure_uid_ag6e5u="1510"> McKerrow and Tinker sorting out gear at Base Camp in 1994. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbpKrAfr8I/AAAAAAAADnk/VuDPU_HpIAc/s1600-h/aa+Mir+tank.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316192779710214082" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbpKrAfr8I/AAAAAAAADnk/VuDPU_HpIAc/s400/aa+Mir+tank.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 260px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong> The writer sitting on an old Soviet tank. Photo: Bob McKerrow</strong><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbqJJBkXyI/AAAAAAAADoU/mIrUUp_2atc/s1600-h/aamirlast+climb.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316193852919668514" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hO_GaOhh0IA/ScbqJJBkXyI/AAAAAAAADoU/mIrUUp_2atc/s400/aamirlast+climb.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 256px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><strong closure_uid_oqrfci="1502" closure_uid_uqvq2="1541" closure_uid_ynpzfq="1528"> Our last climbs in Afghanistan were in June 1996. I went with Mathias Luft, Ross Everson and Bruce Watson. Mathias and Ross climbed Kohe Jalgya 6260m, the peak in the background in the photo above. Bruce and I climbed a 5300 m peak. Photo: Bob McKerrow </strong></div>
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This was quite a difficult expedition and the first mistake made, was letting a Frenchman buy the food without supervision. We ended up with pasta, stale and hard bread, rice, onions sugar and tea. There were no breakfast food, no milk powder, no salt, nuts, meat, chocolate meat or sardines. I wrote in my diary after six days we were starving. A group of armed locals stole equipment from us and Mathias was threatened by a soldier with an AK 47.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yHqVurw7dl4/TkyJlgJma3I/AAAAAAAAHU4/Zg-RHy0S9BE/s1600/anjuman+bruce.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" qaa="true" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yHqVurw7dl4/TkyJlgJma3I/AAAAAAAAHU4/Zg-RHy0S9BE/s400/anjuman+bruce.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<strong closure_uid_7nvkdr="1702">Bruce Watson on our Kohe Jalgya expedition at about 4,800 metres, just above our base camp. Photo: Bob McKerrow </strong></div>
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It took us five days to cross from the Panjcher Valley over Kotali Anjoman, down to Anjoman village, where we turned a sharp right up a side valley called Darrahe Paghar and set up a base camp at 4300 metres under Kohe Jalgya.<br />
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We soon realised that Kohe Jalgya was quite a technical climb and we didn’t have enough climbing equipment for such an ice climb. So Ross and Mathias head for Kohe Jalgya and Bruce and I for another less technical climb, an unnamed peak at 5,300 metres. <br />
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On the ascent of Kohe Jalgya, Ross and Mathias spent a night half way up the peak. They made good progress the next day but found the ice climbing difficult. After negotiating the hardest part of the climb, they came to a small snow field where they had to plug through waist-deep snow near the summit. They turned back at 4 pm on the 6th of June as the weather closed in. The descent turned into an epic in worsening weather. Mathias had two axes for front pointing down the face, but Ross only had one which slowed him down. Mathias gave Ross one of his ice axes, and he used one axe and an ice screw as a dagger, to descend. About 9 pm, Mathias lost footing and fell down an icy coliour and tumbled head over heels for 300 metres, just coming to a stop before a rocky bluff. Although cut and bruised, he was able to walk. Meanwhile, Ross continued descending alone in the dark on steep ice. Now separated by 300 metres, Mathias managed to stagger back to their tent situated on a snow ledge. Ross kept down climbing on ice another two hours, reaching the tent at midnight. <br />
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Meanwhile, at base camp, Bruce and I were anxiously waiting, for they were a day late. We had eaten our last spoon of milk powder and had no food left, not even a cooker to make tea. <br />
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So on Saturday 8 June, Bruce and I left a note and emergency equipment under a rock cairn, and said we were leaving for the valley to buy a sheep, cook it and come up with some locals to effect a rescue.<br />
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We got down to a small hamlet in the valley about 4.30 pm and I glanced back at the mountain, and saw two specks slowly moving on the lower snow slopes of the mountain. It could only be Ross and Mathias. Bruce and I were elated. They were alive! We bought a stringy old female sheep and got the farmer to skin it, cut it up and boil it, preparing a feast for Ross and Mathias. Four hours later Mathias and Ross crossed the risinf river, and joined us for a feast of mutton. Four days later we were back in Kabul.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WkzGB8dOI40/TkyLNArk6KI/AAAAAAAAHU8/iXXqQrAUw8c/s1600/Hk+clarke+tinker.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" qaa="true" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WkzGB8dOI40/TkyLNArk6KI/AAAAAAAAHU8/iXXqQrAUw8c/s640/Hk+clarke+tinker.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<strong closure_uid_7nvkdr="1732">Two of the best ! Over the years i have climbed with many high competent mountaineers but John Tinker (left) and Ian Clarke (right) are two of the best I have climbed with. We did an expedition to Mir Samir together and Clarke and I did a recce of the Anjuman Pass area in 1995, trying to reach the Wakhan. The central Hindu Kuah in the background.</strong></div>
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So during the three years I lived and worked in Afghanistan, (1993-96), I was fortunate to get out to many parts of the Hindu Kush, and explore, trek and climb. With the difficult security situation today, I am so grateful to have taken that opportunity.<script type="text/javascript">
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</script> On reflection, I suppose it was minefield mountaineering. Thanks to Ian Clarke for giving me the confidence to travel in a country that was heavily mined, and teaching me what was safe and what was not.</div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-5889513929486595302018-04-29T18:34:00.001-07:002021-06-29T17:56:08.412-07:00My Grandparents - The Hodgson Family.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> The Hodgson Family.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> <b><i>Back left - Millicent, Bertie, Muriel, Stanley, and Lucy</i></b></span><b><i><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> Front Row - Twentyman Hodgson and Sarah (nee Pattrick) and Pearl. </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><br />Pearl, my Grandmother on the front right, is not happy about her Father having a Pony in the photo.<br />This photo may have been taken just prior to Bert and Stanley leaving for South Africa.</span></i></b><br />
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I have been reading quite a lot lately about my Great-Grandfather Twentyman Hodgson (1854-1921) who became very skilful as a daring horseman and made a name for himself and a great reputation in handling young and outlaw horses, both in New Zealand and Australia. When he lived in Papanui, he outperformed American cowboys in travelling rodeos, set records for endurance horse rides, and in his final year (1921) rode by horse from Invercargill to Martins Bay and back, to help th<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">e McKenzies round up their cattle. Like many great horsemen, he died in the saddle when he was thrown off his horse and sustained concussion of the brain.</span></div>
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Not surprisingly his two sons, Bertie and Stanley were very good horsemen and travelled with the horses to South Africa and fought in the Boer War. My Grandmother, Pearl Annie Hodgson, lived with us in old age when I was a boy and told me many stories about her amazing family. My daughter KIra Pearl is named after her Great Grandmother.<br />
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-82782614950225316292018-04-28T22:54:00.000-07:002018-04-28T22:54:02.125-07:00EXPLORING PERU'S ICY ANDEAN TEETH <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In 1968, I was a member of a New Zealand mountaineering expedition to the Cordillera Vilcabamba, Peru. For the first part of the expedition, I climbed with John (J.E.S) Lawrence in the Cordillera Vilcabamba. John joined the expedition late and left early. Here is his story:<br />
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The story of my late arrival and early departure (due to limited vacation time from my job as mountaineering instructor at the North Carolina Outward Bound School) June-July 1968 on the New Zealand Expedition to Cordillera Vilcabamba, Peru. Expedition members were Dick Cowan, Paul Green, Bob McKerrow, Peter Goodwin, Mac Riding, Allen Higgins and Ken McNatty as leader, all of New Zealand. 1. Joining the expedition: As an itinerant Brit, after climbing Mt Cook in New Zealand with Ken McNatty, I learned to respect his amazing rangey strength and cool capacity for getting organized, and knew I wanted to climb further with these amazing kiwi mountaineers. Tough as teak, modest, funny, and hugely energetic, it was to me unsurprising that New Zealand's very own beekeeper had strode on ahead of all others along with the inimitable Tensing to the summit of Everest. On May 5th, 1967, Ken wrote me from Wellington, telling me about an explosion that had unsettled him, along with wisdom teeth removal, but inviting me to join his 1968 Andean Expedition to the remote Vilcabamba region of Peru. On 26th September, he wrote again regretting he had seen me on NZ TV playing Bach to a weddell seal in Antarctica, but repeating the offer. There was no difficulty in replying to this amazing opportunity. Ken was representing another sample of the world's best climbing companions (as I had learned in the NZ Alps and Victory Mountains of the TransAntarctic Range,) and dangling in front of me a then entirely new area of unclimbed 17-20,000 foot peaks deep in unmapped Andean Peru. No contest. So I obtained leave from my job at the North Carolina Outward Bound School, through gracious acceptance and support from the Board. The letter of April 8 1968 from the Board Chairman of the Operations Committee, Lloyd Borstelmann, said the following: This is simply to confirm approval for your annual leave from May 28 to July 9. We wish you good fortune and success on your venture with the NZ Andean Expedition. We look forward to having you back with us for the June course and many more. These folks on the OB Board were terrific. They had come together under the amazing leadership of a small crew of visionaries, including Marjorie Calloway, Dick Borden, Watts Hill Jr, Tony Mulvihill, Dave Mashburn and others who saw the promise of TableRock and the Linville Gorge as a resource for the nation's young people. As a result, the NCOBS had become a reality, as a bellweather for OB progress in America, and I was lucky enough to be a part of its construction and operation. I carry the scars to this day. I took off on the first day of my leave, with well-wishes from Outward Bound, a few instructions from Ken and friends, an equipment list, and a vague itinerary. Jack Shirey drove me down to Charlotte, and Roddey Dowd, a Board member and strong supporter saw me off from the airport, giving me at the last moment an engraved stainless steel US Marine pocket knife which I still have. Delta promised Atlanta- Miami, and thence via Equitoriana to Lima. On arrival in Lima I was supposed to follow scribbled back-of -the-envelope notes to contacts via the Hotel Claridge thus learning how to go on via Cuzco. On arrival at the Charlotte airport in May in North Carolina, Roddey Dowd , scion of Charlotte Pipe & Foundry, refused to be embarrassed by association with the intense-looking englishman clad in high altitude boots, long socks and woollen pants, in early North Carolinian summer, but clad for the Peruvian winter. He waved me goodbye. I made my way confidently to the counter, and when excess baggage charges appeared imminent, karabiner necklaces and an additional climbing rope were added under my jacket. All of this became more brutally intrusive on arrival in Miami (85°), when the Equitoriana agent informed me, after interminable shrugs and sighs, that I had no reservation, and the next flight would be tomorrow, via Panama, and Ecuador. So I wandered around clinking audibly, but slept fitfully in the airport, and stumbled onto the Electra 2 aside a tired and bad-tempered flight attendant who brought a swath of paper cups on board, opened a filthy-looking locker and rammed the long tube of cups in with his foot and a curse in spanish. We bounced through Panama, Cali and landed in Quito, when I deplaned to take an airport meal, again clinking noisly with all my climbing hardware (would never have made this post-911), and didn't hear an announcement in Spanish as to my flight, and thus missed the plane. Next flight two days hence. But Equitoriana paid the bills for my hotel, since they seemed distressed that they hadn't found me. At last I felt accepted, and anyway this hiatus presented a chance for a little acclimatization. Quito is at almost 10,000 feet, and Rocco Pichincha stands 15,000' plus above the city. So I ran up, via quite serious ridge climbing, made the summit, and came back down in pouring rain, with a spectacular headache from the altitude. On arrival back at the hotel reeling from effort, and in soaking wollen clothes, I succumbed to the sweet folks who undressed me, taking my clothes to dry them, bringing me underclothes and pajamies, and I climbed shivering into bed. A Pilsener lager assuaged my headache, and let me sleep, The morning brought hastily dried vetsments, and a big burn-mark on my trousers evident in all subsequent photos. I smelled like a walking forest fire which resulted in wide berths around the airport, and an empty seat beside me on the plane to Lima. On arrival, through the usual difficulties with baggage, it became a sort of clue-driven game of pursuit of the expedition. I followed previously mailed written directions from the team, and somehow made it to Hotel Claridge at US $3 per night, where I found Don Whillan's name in the guest book as he was on his way to Huandoy, and I met the scotsman Brian Robertson of the same expedition. I called the UK Embassy as a precaution to notify them this smelly brit was now part of their responsibility in Peru, and went to bed. In the morning, following directions, I took a bus for 3 soles to Miraflores and the home of Salvador Gandolfo. An amazing, beautiful apartment, two ice-axes crossed on an immaculate white wall. Churchill and naval history books on the bookshelf. He handed me mail, told me of his previous engagement with NZ expeditions and gave me instructions for the hard days ahead to catch up (now several days behind) with the others. Went out that afternoon for more beers with Robertson and his Australian girlfriend, and then back, and slept gratefully, with the prospect of an early morning start for Cuzco. So, June 1, and heading down to meet a beaming Cesar Falcon with a cross above his rear view mirror to see us through Lima traffic to the airport for my flight to Cuzco, a brand new 727 with no marks on the seats, and the most alluring flight attendants yet. Cuzco is surrounded by high escarpments, and I remember the acceleration, as if the plane might flip over onto its back as it climbed so sharply. My former, magnificent and beloved Vincent Black Shadow however was more than precedent for a Peruvian takeoff, even for this awesome flight. It seemed we were in bad mountain weather as we emerged like a wet squeezed soap out of clouds into sunlight. Flight attendants suddenly appeared to lean towards me and breathe heady requests into my beard. Coca Cola? Is that all? The cotton sea below still obscured the Andes I had worked hard to gain a window seat to observe. Finally it cleared. Huge gorges below, ending inevitably in spectacular spires. Vast, knife-edged and scary. What a miraculous vista.. cómo increíble. Almost as appealing as those lovely flight attendants . trouser burns on the Cuzco sad goodbyes many backward glances Landed in Cuzco with all my stuff, said a reluctant farewell to the crew, grinded over to the local train, bought the last seat, and took off again, everyone, of course, shouting `Vamos'. As we climbed on our six hour journey out of the valley, when we got to the `Z' section up the slope, the train driver hopped out of the cab, changed the points as we slid backwards, and jumped back in, to collect tickets in between jumps. We passed someone having a haircut on the side of the rail line. People are passing out beer, but the large charming señora beside me who has taken total responsibility for me and all my straggly mountaineering baggage says `No' , pointing to her head and rolling her eyes. She gleams for me, intoning that I'm no ordinary gringo.. no esta tourista, es alpinista... none of which I u I stop at Machu Picchu, with amazement at the strategic placement of observation posts above the valley below. No wonder this place has survived. The Urubamba gorge is truly a wonder. Beyond, the hint of ice beckons. I know I should resist local seductions, my purpose is the mountains beyond. Little did I realize what alluring prospects the valley had to offer further down. So, finally the train arrives in Santa Maria. I have names, but no addresses. My señora helps me, since noone speaks English, and I have little spanish, but her kind energy works for me. Halfway along the empty tracks after the train leaves, the police pick me up, calling my name and hauling my bags. Mañana der is a beeg party para ti señor! Apparently Ken and the boys left word that they had a bloody englishman in their wake. After signing in at the local police station, I was ceremoniously ushered into a cell, and a bed, certainly not my first time in jail, but by far the most kindly reception. In a while, the arrival at my cell door of someone with limited english but lots of enthusiasm established quite clearly that this evening was far from over. We went out along the tracks to another house, where a huge dinner was waiting. Halting conversation ensued during which I unwittingly disturbed the equilibrium by suggesting that Luis, my guide, was very handsome, and thus a big hit with the señoritas, which led him to explain tortuously that he was married. He was the most gentle and kind host, even swapping his full glass with my empty one (he thought without my knowing) when he knew I was thirsty and there was no more soft drink. Coming from North Carolina, I began to fear the town was dry, but the coffee made up for it. I presumed bed before a strenuous mañana, but should have known better. On the way back to the jail from dinner, remembering my geography, I stopped to look for the Southern Cross, a true favourite of mine. Luis interpreted my stopping as reluctance to close the evening, and innocently enquired if his guest would like to spend minutos `looking round the town'? So we made our way along the railroad tracks along a cobbled path, past sleeping bodies, and men pissing (Luis made disapproving clucking noises over that) until we went up some steps, and came out onto a sort of village green, where some kind of religious gathering was going on. There was an altar, with many big candles, and a tall cross draped with some shiny material, and surmounted by a crude, reverent picture of Christ. Women were praying in a large circle, and it sounded as though rockets were going off intermittently in the background. A voice made announcements, and then music started, and all of a sudden, the party - that was supposed to be tomorrow - started happening. People dragged handkerchiefs out of their pockets, and began an elaborate, if not brilliantly executed series of sinuous movements to the music, at least reasonably easy to follow for a brit clad in singed pants and high altitude boots. Beer flowed extremely freely, brought round in wobbly glasses on a tray, and it was with a sense of premonition (I was unaccountably but continually flanked by two quite proper young policemen in uniform) that I was expected to perform alone. A curious, deprecating, bearded guy appeared from nowhere, with excellent english. He worked with a local cultural institute, and amid whispered explanations as to what was going on, started to introduce me to the prettiest of all the young girls in the crowd. As I noted in my log, `the band held its breath , and I sweated., but there was no mistaking the moment. The gringo was up before the multitude. Moths even suspended their suicidal wallops into the candles'. But I did an englishman's best, which my latina wife today will tell you is awful. I first asked permission of mami, then papi, then persuaded the shy but gorgeous girl formally into the center of the circle, waved the hanky thrust into my hand by my guide, and…. off to the races. We commenced a beery twist, with me clumping in size nine-and a half Cassins, to kindly polite but definitely not energetic handclapping. I gained in confidence with repetitive replacements of my beer glass, and it was not until a man came up and asked to dance with me that I felt it was time for bed, alone. A celebratory piss into the Urubamba on the way back, and I lurched to the first night under a Peruvian poncho in a free prison bed. I have never topped that since. Woken at 6.20 am, I read the scrawls on the walls in the early morning sunlight. `El trabajo significa - la ociosidad denigra' . So inspired, I forcefully grabbed my gear, and went to the local truckstop to hitch a ride down the valley to Chaullay, making yet another mistake by leaving passport and return ticket with the Santa Maria police asking them to keep it safely for me! After boomeranging back on a second truck to pick them up and identify myself in Chaullay to rather impatient local officials, I found myself in the shade under a tree by the dusty roadside contemplating my stupidity, studying Ken's rudimentary maps, waiting for another camion to haul me to Coquipata. You should have learned this by now....always keep your passport close by you, said a clickety recording in my inner ear. local jail my friendly señora arranging transport I obviously had far too much baggage to head off into the high country without either at least four wheels or four legs. These mountain communities were infested with the fear, if not the actuality, of bandits, and military presence was everywhere. I had a little reserve food, but needed to keep it for emergencies, and thus would rely on eating locally and risking the `squits'. Now, it was domingo, so no wonder there was not the usual number of trucks, and the few I saw were all going the other way. As far as I could tell, once I made the 7 km to Coquipata, I had another 13 km to Paltaybamba, then 20km to Huancacalle, where the big country started. Maybe I could get mules and some company, but I was not sure where the vehicle road ends. I thought at that time I was only a day behind my com daily ablutions el jefe Señor Bauer, and …. his wife arriving at Bauer's puesto guardia view from the hacienda balcony I apparently found a mule, since my log's wobbly handwriting rhapsodizes about entering through a hacienda with a donkey. Yet I had also at least one horse, and my memory (and photos) suggest that I rode the horse and tried to strap my mountaineering sacks onto the donkey. I also re steaming. Its owner had just taken a filthy paper and hide dressing off it, and then picked up dirt from the street, and sprinkled it all over to form a powder covering. Further down, a guitarist strummed quietly, using a plastic ballpoint held down with a rubber band as a fret. I bought some food, and contemplated how much precious time I was wasting. On the way back, I watched as a heifer was slaughtered on a rickety bridge, its entrails swept off into the river below, and the meat taken to the local market. the professional butcher local meat market At last the next day dawned, my new mule arrived, and I was again introduced to the intricacies of mulepacking. Many layers of blanket and skins, and then a soft sort of rope ladder arrangement which goes on longitudinally, forming shelf-like steps on each side of the back to support the upside down V-frame. Fore and aft ropes stop the load from shifting that way, but also help to strap the girth well forward of the belly to stop it slipping backwards. After losing the load the first twenty times, I fooled myself into thinking I was a bit of an expert, and stuff hung in there pretty well. So off we went, on horseback, me and my two young police escorts, up the narrow valley path, trying to keep the mule away from the rocky sides which might snag and unsettle the load. the binding sorgas………………………………………………………………………………………….. and eventual success At every dwelling, we would ask `los gringos passan alli?' and the nods would keep us going, every now and then passing those before that had not made it. the leading cop mini-monuments Both the police had rifles, and from the way they held them, it didn't take long to realize they were increasingly uneasy about coming this far up the valley, since they were strangers in a new territory. We reached a pueblo, left the horses, and set off for the high ground with a lot of confidence, just us and the mule. The result was, once we started up the very steep incline out of the valley head, we got truly lost, and the enormity of the country became awesomely evident the higher we got. We travelled up beside tilled ground even at this altitude, illustrating the harsh but rewarding livelihoods for those dwelling in these highlands. The tools were primitive, arguing for injury at every turn. The swing of an axe, or dig of a spade threatened even the youngest backs, and sharp hoe-blades thrust in repeated movements within inches of planting fingers. Children were exposed early to the heights, and to the nurturing blessings of a working mother. digging……… in inhospitable, stony soil…….. while the youngest gets a snack The high ice we had glimpsed several days ahead seemed to beckon us, but how to get there? our elusive goal there seemed no clear route, and the icy vista vanished as we got closer, and the question was which valley had the team chosen? After the trail became totally indeterminate, I began to worry. We could go for days up here without seeing anyone. A couple thousand feet down below us, we could make out a tiny dwelling, though it was not clear it was inhabited. But it at least implied shelter for the night, and my companions were much happier riding down than walking up. There was no track, but walls to corral cows and sheep. The numbers of times the mule fell, I had to re-lash the rucksacks again, and we knocked down walls (with minimal rebuilding Im afraid). This led to an increasingly mutinous attitude among the soldiers/police, and the clouds began to come down around us. Finally after several miserable and grouchy hours of grim descent, as the sun was setting, we arrived at the little building, which was nothing but a shepherd's hut. We had a stream, some water, shelter, but little else. finding our way down outside the hut I thought the others might even scream, they were so disappointed. I was concerned they might simply go off and leave me, but I needn't have worried. They were far less able to find their way in this wild country than I. We all sort of began to depend on each other. Rifle butts made short work of the primitive lock on the door, and in we went. At least now we had cover. A mug, a spoon and some potatoes in a sack on the floor meant dinner was on its way. While they labored to get a fire going, I made the most of the vanishing light to explore any possible exit for tomorrow. There was no track of any kind leading down, but it seemed unthinkable to go back up. I was sure there had to be some kind of route for shepherds and animals, but no, only upward. So I raced up it for a way, to see if it went onto the ridge, but darkness forced me back. I used my primus to cook up some hot drink for all of us. It took three hours before their feeble fire cooked the potatoes, and only because I kept adding fuel and fanning the flames while they sat in cocooned m way was the right one. But one thing was certain. Seven kiwis and twenty six mules had not passed this way. So we slept. A fine dewy morning light woke us all up, and the remains of the fire was rekindled enough to brew up coffee. I knew there was no question of us starving. The police had plenty of ammo, and there were cattle in some of the enclosures further down. At one point we saw a tawny mountain lion in the rocks ahead, but several shots yielded nothing except the scream of ricochets. But they needed a lot of persuading to head up rather than down, but I succeeded, and as the path steepened, it became extremely difficult to get the mule up rocky outcrops, and through narrow stream ravines. Finally the load slipped off yet again in a particularly hairy spot, and we nearly lost the mule. One of the cops ran for cover the moment he saw the load starting to slide round underneath the mule's feet, and it started to kick. The other cop, a much taller and braver guy who I had grown to like, tried to hold the load and calm the mule, but they were both in danger of going over the edge. I had to jump up and grab the mules neck, and with the same move I'd learned in combat training, more by instinct and anger, one good leg sweep, floored the bloody mule. There we lay panting, the cop, the mule and I, in a heap, me and the cop on top of the mule, the mule on top of the carga, and the other cop watching warily. There was only one thing to do, get to our feet, apologize to the mule for the wretched treatment it was getting, and lash it all on again. But in a few yards, it was off again. So I did something I had been dreading. I took off the entire load, repacked it with most of the load in my own sack. This gave a manageable weight for the mule's load, and with the help of a sheepskin over the hard frame to provide more friction, only one minor adjustment was needed for the rest of the day. One of the cops motioned that maybe I would like to carry the mule as well as my now horribly overloaded pack. We climbed and climbed, following the track upwards to ridge. At last, way over from the valley we had come down into yesterday, we saw the beginning of the snowy Pumasillo range. Another day or so should get us there. But that was not on the cop's agenda. They were only for going straight back to Pucyura as fast as possible. They made all sorts of excuses, including the fact they only had two days assignment with me, which made sense, but it wasn't my fault we were lost, and I knew they had orders to get me safely to the gringo's base camp. Furthermore, they had no idea in which direction Pucyura lay, since we were far removed from the point at which we had breasted the adjoining ridge two days before. Actually I was incomparably grateful for their company. To have been alone out here with just my mule would have been difficult for several reasons. Moreover they had to return the mule once I had finished with it. So I headed off towards the snow along the ridge. I knew I had their blankets, so after a bit of muttering, they followed. We probably went for about five miles until we saw a deep cut, and a small hut, this time with smoke coming from the roof. Whoops of joy ensued, `casa, hombre'... and a sense of huge relief. Barking dogs aroused the farmer, and the promise of food, warmth and company down to the next pueblito (Racachaca) gave us just the boost we needed. And one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. the two policemen outside our much appreciated B&B Amazingly, this kind mountain farmer and his family had a small battery radio, attached to a wire aerial on a pole, way up here totally alone in the Andean heights. The nearest habitation was about a day away, down below in the valley. I thought we were probably at between 3 and 4,000 meters. A small antenna poked up from the roof connecting the radio to the pole, and the tall cop and I sat on a rock and drank a mug of tea while a stream of scratchy spanish came from the radio in his hand. For the record, this was Thursday, June 6th, according to my log. Suddenly the cop leapt to his feet with a loud `Ah'. He looked bitterly serious and concerned. I smiled reassuringly, but he stammered to communicate with this crazy gringo who didnt speak his language. `Kennedy, Kennedy muerto... bang bang' he shouted. Although he was almost in tears, I was sure he was reliving an account of JFK's death, but then I heard it myself, on Radio Lima, Robert F Kennedy assassinated. Overcome with this, and his obvious and very touching distress, I was simply stunned. It seemed utterly incomprehensible that I should hear of this in such a remote spot almost immediately after it happened. It reminded me of another grievously bitter memory five years earlier, when the future Governor of Ohio, Dick Celeste, then a young diplomat in India, woke me in the guest room of his residence in New Delhi, dropped a copy of the newspaper on my bed with tears in his eyes, and said he was sorry he had to go quickly to the American Embassy because the US President (John F Kennedy) had just been shot. The farmer and his wife insisted on moving out of their warmest rugs and sheepskins, and letting me sleep on them, despite my protests. Throughout various wanderings across all the continents, I have been lucky enough to confirm these spontaneous acts of immense kindness to strangers as an almost universal norm. I slept very well, partly from relief, and awoke to see our host the señora peeling spuds. I note in my log that all we've had to eat in the last three days is spuds, pork and tea, but gratefully. I had tongue-burn from something, but watched as the farmer expertly lashed the load onto the mule much higher than we had before, and using the under-projections of the frame to winch the load tight. His eleven year old son guided us through the tiered potato patches to a path leading through high crags to a point where we could see down to the original Pocyura path we had missed before, and the steep slope leading to the pueblo in the valley, which would lead hopefully to base camp. If only I had a glider. But I was immensely grateful to my young guide. finally headed in the right path So I pushed hard on down to the junction with the Pocyura track, sure that we would have a confrontation with the cops upon reaching it, so I stayed well ahead with the mule. We got to the pueblito where we established the gringos had been through, and what direction they had taken. However, the confrontation occurred as expected. No way the cops were going on any further. But the tall one generously conceded to helping with the mule for una hora mas... and when his companion enquired as to whether he would be back within the hour, repeated depende, depende... However, after two hours out from the pueblo, in a large basin ending in a steep climb to a higher mountain valley beyond, where I was sure, because of assurances from locals in the pueblo, the base camp must be, even he refused to go further. I had learned to trust him, and made him promise to sit tight with the mule and all my gear while I scouted on up over the col and into the high moraine. I think I was feeling the three days lack of a good meal, something sweet, and the company of people I could talk with easily, and I toiled up that slope even with no load, with some difficulty, realizing he could have whisked off with all my gear. But there was an obvious mule track, and I should surely see the others shortly. Moving fast now, reaching the crest, I looked into a rough rocky basin with a glacier stream, and further back, what looked like another higher hanging valley. Breathing like an asthmatic, I broke in to a sort of guide's trot, and went on up, and made the upper edge of the cwm. Suddenly, there ahead of me I caught the color of the red and yellow tents. God, what a feeling... and running and shouting, I arrived. first sight of Base Camp Nobody came out, silence. It was eerily empty. There was however food, a primitive chapel and a tent city. I grabbed a handful of biscuits, and some barley sugar and raced off back down to my faithful, and much appreciated companion. I found him cold, but immensely loyal, having waited two and a half hours. I decided to carry all of my stuff up myself, and let him take the mule with him, but by chance we saw a group of locals (quechuans) further down the valley who agreed for 30 soles to carry it all up to the camp. It was almost dark, so I unfolded my orange bivvy tarp , pitched it, and crawled happily into the sack. It had already taken me five precious days from Santa Maria, but I was now in another quandary, stay in base camp and wait for them all to return, or probe out into the surrounding country and try to find them so as not to waste another week. For some reason, respecting established property ownership, I didn’t climb into one of the many existing pitched tents, but set up my trusty little flysheet that had served me so well through many nights out, but never before at this height. Upon rising the next morning, I found fresh snow on my bivvy, heavy cloud, and little promise of much progress. my first bivvy I headed up to the highest ground I could find still in sight of the tents, yodelled several times to accompanying silence, and returned to prepare for a lie-up day. My yodelling while driving friends and family crazy, and spraying those standing too closely in most unhygenic ways, has proved very useful in the mountains, and was to stand me in good stead here. It stirred my blood, and despite the whiteout, I packed everything I thought I might need for three days, left a note, and took off for high ground. My feet were still blistered from earlier mule-wrestling, and I found myself in tussocky turf hummocks in between vertical rocky walls. It took me five hours to get to the ridge, and I really thought I might break a leg in those boggy mounds. But I got to a new high tiny valley with what looked like a track. I searched in vain for vibram marks, and saw none. By now it had begun to rain. A large, fast stream flowed below me, with the unmistakeable cement-grey color of moraine water. I pressed on upwards, to find some yodelling spot that might promise a wide range for reception. The rain was stronger now and I climbed up into a large mossy basin with a moraine lake... a good place to camp. After five cups of good latin coffee, I settled down for sleep under my all-purpose bivvy, pitched up against a rock, and slept fitfully with occasional visits from possum-like animals looking for food. a second bivouac alone Sunday the 9th of June was again wet, cold and cloud covered, but the mist blew aside occasionally to reveal glacier ice at the head of my valley, and immediately above me a high pass. It stopped snowing as I cooked up some porridge on the stove, got out of the bivvy, and examined my visible options. Yodelling had proved the team wasn't in this valley, or at least within blasting range on the glacier, and I'm a fair to passing tracker, and there was no trace of human movement on the route up the river. So it seemed most profitable to head up to the pass, and beam a yodel down into the next valley. If that didnt work, I could head back to base, and work the other side valleys. So leaving everything, I labored up through snow and the dreaded tussocks I gathered my breath and yodelled. Nothing. So I did it one more time, and got an answering shout! I couldn't believe it, thought I might be hallucinating, so this time shouted, and back came a mirrored answering shout. Unmistakeable! Great! After a swift intrapersonal debate on safety, which I won, I plunged down into the mist like a banshee, falling, sliding, rolling down gulleys, slipping and slithering, stopping every now and then for a reassuring shout, until I reached the valley bed. Still I could see little through the mist, but finally made out a figure... `John Lawrence' shouted Ken, and these Kiwis came running through the snow in SHORTS! God was I glad to see them! I must have been a rather crazy sight... and I'm sure they were wondering who this crazy Brit was arriving so late, and in such disarray. I had the presence of mind to photo these magnificent guys, at least ten foot tall, at that actual moment… and have never been gladder to see anyone in my life!! Paul Green Bob McKerrow Ken McNatty 2. Start Serious Climbing They immediately put on a brew, right there, and we all had some cabin bread and jam, and they told me they were on their way back to base , having climbed the Unnamed Peak and Cupola, with a third still remaining. How I wish I had got there earlier. Still, the main part of the climb, Torayoc, and the redoubtable Pumasillo still remain. These amazing Kiwis insisted on climbing back up and over my pass to pick up my stuff, and head down the valley back to Base. These guys are tough. I couldnt keep up even though I'm sure I was carrying less than them. It began to snow, then rain, and when we got to base, I handed over the mail I had brought, and settled into a dry bag and the first night together, only to get up with the dry heaves , perhaps from an overdose of spent adrenalin and altitude. A third of my time gone, and nothing ascended yet. Heard the snow on the tent and realized that would hold us up further due to slow going and avalanche danger. Temperature was holding at just below freezing, pretty wet snow at around 15000', exactly like mild English winter conditions. The dawn got us all up at 0630, and I found to my dismay that everyone got up and ate meals at a common spot, rather than cook separately on elbows in the tent as I was used to, but this was obviously more economical. My lazy side had to be kicked off, and I demurred with rather bad grace. andean congress Heavy mist blanketed our little community, and we stayed in the bell tent swapping tall tales most of the day. At some point after nightfall, someone opened the tent flap, shouted, and we all jumped up and out, and froze at the sight. In the Wagnerian moonlight, tier upon tier of rock and ice stood up into the vague cloud cover around Torayoc. cloud miraculously clearing to display the Vilcambamba Range This was the first time I had seen the ampitheatrics of our base, and was astounded as bit by bit the peaks were shyly revealed, Nevado Blanco, the incredibly beautiful turrets of Mellizos, and last of all Mitre. Tomorrow, if it's fine, we head up behind base to look at the ridge leading to Torayoc. But we woke to damned swirling mist and snow again! Shortness of breath was endemic, and our medic Mac said that this is a hazard associated with the unusual climate contrast, climbing to high altitude so close to the equator. When will this stop, and we can start climbing? We split into our groups. I naturally gravitated to one of the youngest, and most thoughtful of the group, Bob McKerrow, whom I didn't know, but who had a sinewy and intellectual strength that I trusted. I knew he was a champion athlete, and had trained extensively for this expedition. I noted at the time that our initial climb was a `shakedown cruise… but he's strong, and I hope his head matches his shoulders'. I was to find out that it did indeed, and he was to become not only a well known, world class explorer in both antarctic and arctic regions, but respected head of the NZ Outward Bound School, and a leader in the Red Cross in several world regions. I have sometimes thought that when a crumb falls off your lips, crashing soundlessly to the floor, that's how mountain climbers vanish from this world…with little fanfare, but a desire to pick them up and put them more appropriately where they belong..we may be insignificant in every psychological space except our own…but there are exceptions, and Bob is indeed one. my good luck was to get to know Bob The morning sun shines like a big red rubber balloon. We clean up our gear, and set off under the glacier snout. A rough icefall-strewn face from Nevado Blanco opposes us with a very hairy start. We head up under to establish a safe and well-supplied base for tomorrow. My log says `start at 0430, summit at 1355, back at 2000, a long day'. But details followed. Bob and I clomped up the moraine in the dark, until it became essential to rope up and cinch our crampons as the summits of Mellizos and Torayoc were turning pink across the valley. We pulled out our slings and karabiners and pegs so carefully necklaced through airports under overcharge limits on baggage, rigged up, and began the routine rhythmic, repetitive roped-together slowdance that all high mountain climbers know. warming up getting higher We didn't say much… not much needed saying. We followed the other team (Allan & Dick) towards the dreaded first section, a rock and ice traverse under those poised blocks at the foot of the icefall. These house-size chunks crash and grumble down the valley in symphonic avalanches that resonate regularly around the cirque. But enough of context… we had to attend to the business of ice climbing. An extremely awkward series of crampon moves on sloping rock covered in powder snow led to the `belly' traverse'. This, a real fight with rucsac and N wall hammer on one's back, necessitated a couple of swimming strokes flat on the stomach until a bulge could be gained for the hands to swing on, and up across to safer ground. More hairy, unbelayed rock moves and snow terraces until the foot of a nearvertical 100' ice pitch which Allen led. This I found quite easy leading our rope but in Allen's steps., and we stopped for a munch at the top. Always those flutings above us, hanging there like damoclean chandeliers. Across from us, Mellizos' North Face stood as a standard challenge we were soon to face. Mellizoz beckons in the background Now on new ground, I took the lead, and found out what all the fuss was about. South facing snow, knee deep, and very steep. How the stuff stayed there I'll never know. It was peverse, dangerous conditions, sometimes a double crust to add to the uncertainty and threaten to break your rhythm on every step. Anyway, it scared me a lot, and I thought that in any other range than the Andes with its major temperature differentials, we would have avalanched more than one of those wet snow slopes. I spent some twenty minutes negotiating a lip of overhanging snow over a crevasse. I thought it would be ice, a peg, a sling, a step up, and the whole thing would be over. But it was all rotten snow, and just had to be hacked away. This gained us a large névé under the spectacular ice gulleys of the summit ridge. Now the very last thing I wanted to do was to go straight up one of those fluted gulleys this time of day. Every rational diagnosis in my brain said `no!', but the others were sure it would go, and there was really no alternative, so I stood back, and watched the other rope start up that 700' feet straight up in the soft snow. I was learning Andean ascent. Following them up that damn couloir meant moving up a little faster than the snow was coming down. At least there was some ice-peg protection on the sides which were scoured by the constant hissing stream . Speed was everything, and our rope took over the lead halfway up, plugging away until finally we reached the ridge with great relief. So far so good, and it was unforgettable to see the short remaining distance to the summit. It is a very inaccessible little peak, no easy way up, and certainly it was on my mind that we still had to get down, via one or other of those horrible flutings. The few hundred feet along the soft snow knife edge led to the final summit tower. Bob led, with several muttered curses about how hairy it all was.. and there was barely room for us both as I joined him on the final summit cornice. high on the ridge As always, the view was a stunning reminder of our context, though the weather was changing. We looked about 3000' straight down beneath our feet to the glacier at the bottom of the East face. This was a sub-peak of the Nevado Blanco group, and we were only a short distance (of execrable mushroom bulges) and a couple hundred feet below the top of Nevado Blanco . We moved back to a safe belay ledge cut out below the ridge and let the others come up past us to summit. We didn't stay there long.. agreeing that an attempt up to Nevado Blanco was inadvisable given the snow conditions, and as we were in and out of cloud, and awareness of the dangerous descent was weighing heavily on all of us. The wind snapped at our anaraks as we front-pointed backwards down the summit ridge. The gulley was better in reverse than we thought. I came down last, and we made it all in good fettle and good time. We rapped down the ice pitch from aluminium mooring pegs, one of which we took out for the last man down (Allen) who we protected (?) with some runners in the ice. By this time it was dark, so headlights were turned on. Climbing down the belly traverse was worse than we remembered , but we were finally back at tents and brewing up dinner feeling good that we had made it, if slowly. That night, avalanches could be heard off Mellizos, and we decided on a base day tomorrow. Besides Bob spoke worryingly of a pain in his chest as we moved between camps . 16,000' kicks in Idleness however didn’t feel right, so we worked on moving another camp (II) as a base up under Mellizos, well out from the face away from avalanche danger. Several hours of hard lugging loads, and Bob managed one load, but again complained of a chest pain, so we left him at the high camp when we went back down for a second haul. The flithy, slippery moraine ice on the way up seemed much more difficult this time, and we stopped often, feeling the altitude (estimated around 16,000').Just before we left the moraine and got onto the snow, as we sat panting quietly, four boulders the size of armchairs rolled and sidled down into the glacier gut right beside us. Allen, a panel-beater by trade, and as formidable a kiwi climber as any who ever wore boots, turned a sore neck slowly, giving the action the benefit of a cynical eye, swore softly, and hoisted his pack back up again. When we got up to Bob, with whom I was sharing the one of the Camp II tents, I was concerned that his chest was still significantly bothering him. I could hear no răles, and there seemed no fever or infection that we could detect. Finally I persuaded him to prod his chest himself in various places, and located the center of the problem at the sternum, thus likely bone or muscular. We were all relieved when he grinned and recalled as how he had cracked his sternum playing football. As an all-round champion athlete, the rugby bug had not passed him by. We were days from even the nearest Qechuan village, and weeks from any medical care. Moreover, as I remember, we had no kind of radio or other contact outside, or even inside our base camp. This was the faith we had in each other, and the risks we quite voluntarily enjoyed taking. 3. New Ascent of Mellizos by its North Face last light under Mellizos Wake-up was leisurely the next morning, and breakfast somewhat protracted. We had our eyes set on the North Face of Mellizos towering directly above us, and through blowing mist, we started up to diagnose what had looked from below like a safe ledge for Camp III. We cramponed steeply through huge crevasses on much better snow. Our rhythm was established, and we were climbing well together, although the whirling, sporadic mist made route finding difficult. When we got to where we thought the ledge was we had seen from Camp II, it was just the lip of another enormous crevasse, offering some protection form avalanche, but not much room for tents. We pressed on, and found a sizeable ledge, and marked it so we could find it again with loads the next day. Camp II looked great down at the foot of the face, and we yodelled to the others. It took us only 1 1/2 hours to get back down. Tomorrow we would carry loads up to Camp III and go for the summit the next day given decent weather. We looked up in the twilight to see what looked like the best route, around 3500' to the top from this north side. The mountain had already been climbed from the east by Americans on 29 July 1956. Since the Vilcabamba to our knowledge had never been surveyed, the heights of all the peaks were an approximation, but we thought ourselves to be in the six thousand meter area. The North Ridge looked like all these Andean ridges, tottery and time-consuming, with little protection, like a fruit cake with creamy toppings. More practical, and quicker if somewhat unstable on the north-facing side of this beautiful mountain, was to pick the cleanest-looking couloir going straight up onto the North ridge close to the summit. The devil or the deep blue sea. The shorter the couloir, the more climbing remained on that candyfloss ridge. And at the top of the couloirs are those magnificent cornices, curled like ornamental awnings, menacingly out over the face. We could watch, in the afternoon sun, the gulleys erode visibly, plunging selective chunks of rock and ice down the face. The only answer was to move in the coldest parts of the day. After a hard frost, the face would take front pointing and fast progress seemed possible. the direct route we took; Circle marks Camp III Camp II at the foot of the face Bob seemed OK with his chest, was climbing strongly, and besides very sore lips, I felt fine. We had a good chance to get our wind carrying loads up to Camp III at over 17,000'. We estimated the summit to be another 2000'+, so we would be carrying tents, personal gear and 4 days food, plus a couple ropes and all the climbing gear. We would be roped all the way of course, and one ice pitch (where I had left a sling and peg) would probably require sack hauling. We gratefully accepted the backup assistance from Dick and Allen who we knew were anxious to do their own climb on Nevado Blanco, but who generously agreed to haul loads with us up to Camp III. These kiwis are something special. So glad I was able to join them. Plus the kiwis had come up with a new kind of ice screw since import regulations made european gear harder to come by. It was an ordinary standard 8 inch coach bolt with a chainlink welded onto its head, and the pitch of the thread lathed out more deeply to give extra bite in the ice. Though they were sometimes hard to start, I found them better than any other ice screw I had used, from quite wide array of British and European climbing equipment. My next log entry says `We are camped safely, ensconced under a huge ice cliff on the N face of Mellizos.. primus going well, snow melting in the pot, and Bob getting into his pit… we've had an eventful few hours'… All four of us started out rather late morning (1015 hrs) with the usual gruesomely heavy loads, with the hot sun and now wet snow making going very difficult. Bob and I were well ahead, though both carrying tents, and got up to the difficult ice pitch, where we stopped and had some `ki', ginger biscuits, chocolate and cheese, wondering why the others didn’t appear. Finally we decided to push on with the ice pitch, leaving the pegs in for the others. It was very difficult with packs on. Yesterday's peg had melted out, and the ice was flaky. Fixed ropes and pegs were of little use in these sun-drenched mountains, and traditional ice screws went floppy in an hour. Coach bolts were the only answer. I was halfway up when Dick's head showed up below us, and he emerged on his own, saying Allan was `crook' and he'd have to go back. I came back down from another ice screw to where I could see down to Allan collapsed in the snow. We made our way down to him, and he was in bad shape, half-sobbing for breath, and clearly there was no alternative but to get him down quickly. We had oxygen at base camp, but I didn’t think he needed it, he was likely to recover quickly after descending with appropriate rest, food, and drink, although he complained of shortness of breath and leg cramps. The sun and the heavy packs and wet snow were too much for any of us, and Allan had had a bout of dysentery already. Although we offered to accompany both of them back down, he insisted that only Dick need come with him. So we kicked out a ledge, opened packs and reconstituted loads. We worked out a plan whereby Bob and I would go on up with as much as we could carry to Camp III, and we'd leave the rest of the gear attached to the icewall peg, and Dick would either bring it up to Camp III tomorrow, or if we could manage without it, we'd go ahead and climb the next day. We worked out yodelling signals, and the face was steep enough so almost all of it could be seen from a short distance back from Camp II. looking down from the face on Camp II I took us five hours to complete the load carry up to Camp III, and it was the hardest day yet. We both moved very slowly. The strap broke on Bob's crash hat and it flipped down into a deep slot. We let it go, to our cost. We felt we had enough food, shelter and equipment for at least a recce of the upper part of the face, if not to go all the way without any extra stuff or help. Camp III was in a safe spot, a wide ice ledge, separated from the face by a schrund, and with plenty of toom for the tent. However, ee encircled our tents with a rope strung between our ices axes as protection against a sleepy nocturnal stumble that could convert a mere necessity into a fatal slip down thousands of feet to Camp II. We went to sleep with the sun and set our alarm for 0400 hours, determined to get onto that ice tomorrow long before the sun hit it. Sunset at Camp III Mellizos We almost didn’t hear the alarm, muffled under duvets and sleeping bags. Bob had heated up the milk the night before and we hauled out the thermos , poured it on the weetbix, and we heated up some hot lemon. We should have left by 0500, but it was very cold and we thawed our boots over the primus for half an hour. A nippy wind was blowing down the face, though the visibility was perfectly clear, and we finally got roped up and off by 0600. We skirted through steep crevasses that guarded our camp, and hesitated a while deciding which of the couloirs to aim for. We picked the one that let straight up out of sight into the ice towers and cornices of the North Ridge. We moved together for about 500', until the slope steepened to where we would lead through for the rest of the way. As we approached the bottom of the gulley, we found we had to cross the schrund between ice and the rock walls of the gulley, but there seemed no satisfactory start beyond that. As we got higher, the rock walls obstructed us, and the couloir went blind. A short pitch up the wall yielded sight of a much larger chute going up the left side of a massive rock rib, and branching at the top into three options, the middle one of which gained the ridge close to where we had seen the summit from the other side. The traverse into this big couloir proved extremely hairy, over very shaky ice, with fifteen hundred feet of face yawning below. By now I had learned, Bob's muttered curses were, like David Witham's low whistling with me on some of Australia' s and New Zealand's hardest rock and ice climbs, a sign of profound, if profane respect for our overall situation on the mountain. I was encouraged by my faith in the rock pegs I had brought with me clinking round my neck through all the airports, because I knew they would hold as either runners or belay/rappel anchors. The last crawl under a bulge into a small schrund-cup and up to where we hoped to find the start of the couloir revealed a frantic vertical wall of rotten ice for about 50'. It was on Bob's lead, and he did it muttering all the way, thoughtfully leaving in two ice screws for me. I followed and saw why he had had so much trouble, but getting over that step made all the difference. Looking down ………………………………………………….. and up the couloir with Bob in the lead Once we gained the couloir proper, the good hard snow and occasional ice and rock rib meant much faster (and better protected) ascent. We moved up in long takeover leads, 120' at a time, with runners as we felt like it, but knowing speed was safety, we mostly just climbed. At the top, the angle eased as we rounded a rock corner, and the couloir branched again. Taking the most direct line up, another 3 pitches and gingerly through the cornice, we were on the ridge, not much more than half a ropes length to the prize. We had climbed the North Face clear to the summit. It was hard to believe our luck.. we looked straight down the face to Camp II amost 4000' below. We thought we could also make out the other team's brightly colored tents on Torayoc, since there was noone else remotely close in the entire Vilcabamba Range, we probably were correct. My yodel raised a faint COEEE from Camp II, much better than a bloody radio! Bob breaking the summit ridge in his wool cap…..arrow points to Camp II What was really staggering was to look down the other approaches. The ridges were horrifying (as we were to learn later). The face dropping down the other side towards Mitre was just an abyss. I had seen pretty awesome scenics on the South face of Annapurna IV, and gazing down the Caroline face of Mt Cook, but there is something quite unique about the architecture of those improbably sculpted Andean spines. Nothing seems reasonable! Here Bob points with a grin down the NE ridge. The ridge beside our couloir………………………………………………………………………in more detail Across to our left was the second peak of Mellizos, about the same height, a rounded bulge surrounded by broken cornices. We debated, not for very long, whether to make the traverse to the second summit, since it was only 1015 hrs, so we had made good time. But a recce of the S facing ridge yielded thigh deep snow, and with the memory of our last climb fresh in our minds, we wiped the idea. Bob took his feet out of his boots and put them into my armpits to relieve frostnip in his toes. We could see plainly in all directions, all the way to Salcantay on which Fritz Kasparek (of Eigerwand fame) had died falling through a cornice near the summit. I have noted I my log that Cesar Morales Arno, Head of the Peruvian Department of Andeanism, who had welcomed the others on the expedition when they arrived at a reception in LIma, shook Bob's hand and told him to `beware of the cornices'. The classic Andes brown dominated the landscape far below that I had seen so much of from the plane, just the icy pinnacles, ridges showing like teeth across the smiling panorama, quite unlike the monstrous white arc of the Himalayas. When I wrote about this in my tent later, I mused on the vista, and the entropic forces against our venturing into such extreme country. Death, I thought, would be unlikely to come instanteously. My almost 200' fall in an ice gulley in Antarctica had introduced me to the drama of what is now called a `near death experience'. Bouncing precipitously into the air after a slip descending a steep cut on Mt Anakiwa1 , I was saved only by the belay of my climbing partner, the redoubtable senior geologist Graham Hancox. We had practised so many times, and he was an experienced alpine climber, subsequently joining Ed Hillary's expedition to Mt Herschel. But as I flew through the air with a high-def awareness of my predicament, slamming momentarily against the ice, only to ricochet back into spinning aerial helplessness, I knew I had somehow to stop, otherwise I would be the death of both of us. I resolved to grab something next time I hit…Bang… bounce…back out into space…then suddenly an elastic bungy-jumping finale as Graham's belay held. I had completely forgotten about the rope, but as it squeezed around my waist and I came back onto the slope grabbing ice like a scared cockroach, Hank's shout from above brought me back to something like ordinary life. (Thanks again Hank!). My feelings are that death seldom comes unexpected in the mountains. Some seek it, like Guy Waterman, whom I met once in the Gunks, and whose young son I helped rescue off Alaska's Mt McKInley in 19692 , but who wished to die in the arms of Mt Lafayette, and did3 . I venture to think rather it comes in the big mountains after a long fall, several impacts, ending up rolling into a crevasse like Joe Simpson4 , but unlike him, unmarked, unfound, perhaps to wake again briefly, for some lonely, agonizing, shivering moments, and then finally, to fade out. Not to be thought about? Why not?. It seemed we climbed Mellizos on a particularly cold day, which was very fortunate. I noted later that others said the creek at Base Camp was dry, because the frost clamped down higher up during that 1 Lawrence J E S `Antarctic Rock' NZ Alpine Journal 1967. pp 21-34 2 `Johnny' Waterman climbed Denali with Brad Snyder and got into trouble above 17'000' on the West Buttress, had to be brought down by sled off the icewall, an episode which engaged myself and others. He subsequently recovered and became one of the youngest ever to summit Denali. 3 Outside Magazine June 2000. 4 Touching the Void. Joe Simpson. 1988 week. Leaving the summit was easy. We roped up and started our descent around 1200. My usual concerns about the funneling function of our route seemed assuaged by our quick progress down the first parts of the couloir, including the rock steps without having to leave any pegs behind. However, as more branches joined the main artery, we were subjected to a constant stream of tiny avalanches with growing chunk-size. Most distressing was that Bob would increasingly lean into the wall with gloved hands over his head to compensate for his lost crash-hat, whereas I stood up and out so I could have a chance to dodge the incomings. They loomed at disastrous speed, and it was clear that the increasing whirring sound spelled nothing but trouble. When Bob was almost buried in a mini-cascade as he clung to the ice, we decided that we had to get out of the gulley. As luck would have it, there was a safe ledge under an overhang in the rock rib running down our flank, and we sought immediate refuge. We had biscuits and cheese, and drank from the water drip from the roof, celebrating our salvation. our salvation …. Bob's facial acknowledgement of a merciful rock overhang on the west side of the gulley The hiss was changing now to a thunk and crash, as big stuff began to clean out our gully. The vertical sastrugi are so steep in the flutings that the sun acts like a sort of razor. When the ice blocks flew by, we would stop munching, and look at each other, and Bob would begin to mutter. We could see our red tiny tents clearly between our feet as we sat, in a kind of mockery. I thought it reminded me of being on a ship unable to make port, moored in the roads outside when you have a date and you can see the lights onshore and you wonder what she's doing. We sat on the ledge for hours, listening to the mountain shivering, watching the detritus rolling out down the face below. At some point a humming bird flew close on the face beside us, beak into tiny flowers, in a brilliant display of miniscule aerobatics, then gone in a flash as if it was never there. If only we had had those wings. We began timing the space between the chunks of ice. As the sun recedes from the face, you can almost hear the ice re-gelling, as the sound volume gets turned down. I was prepared to spend the night on the ledge if necessary… we had good gear and were in good shape. But after counting two or three 3-minute silences, and no big stuff for an hour, we decided to chance it. We descended as fast as we dared, on belay, ensuring our belay stances were always out of the direct fall line. I don’t think either of us have ever moved so fast over ice, and I count it among the more purely lucky episodes in my climbing experience, but despite both of our mutual remonitions as to caution, we simply shot down, only bumped by the odd shot from above. Bob got hit by one sizeable chunk, but no lasting damage. Once over the two big slots at the bottom, we could breathe again, and in less than an hour were grateful to be back at Camp III. Two figures below at Camp II, presumably Dick and Allen were watching our descent. Only when we were finally at the tent did I yodel, and they waved, and retired from their vigil. I'm sure they could see and hear the crap coming down too. Few feelings can equal those upon safe return from danger. Bob's warm handshake at the tent was immensely welcome. We had been lucky, but we had also been skilful, and had come out alright from a significant effort. We both ate too much. Our over -stressed bodies needed more liquid than we could take, and the result was very heavy stomachs, leading to a more or less sleepless night, and some great midnight photos. I woke at dawn feeling very crook indeed, and record staggering out of the tent and having a very large and very painful crap which was thoughtfully committed to the crevasse depths behind our little camp. I felt so weak I took one of our gastro pills, and felt almost instantly better. We could intermittently see others ascending the lower part of the face but were not sure who it was. They seemed to take a long time getting up, to us over the ice step, and shouts failed to raise any response. Perhaps they were just collecting the gear we had left there. We relaxed, and Bob read me hilarious excerpts from his log about the mob that had seen them all off from Wellington on board the Rangitani, something about throwing the minister's daughters into the swimming pool, and entering a Fancy Dress competition as Snow's wife and the Seven Wharfies. Apparently they behaved so badly that they were occasionally mistaken for the crew, getting ordered to their quarters by the captain. Another big Kiwi advantage was that at some point on their outward journey, a Kiwi cent worked as a dime in slot machines, gaining a certain mercantile advantage in various schemes. Many other tales emerged to our great mutual amusement, but we were interrupted by shouts from below and Allen's cheery face appearing at the foot of our little nevé, closely followed by Dick. They were relieved to see out tent was still up since they had traveled very light, relying on all our kit to sustain their ascent up the face the next day. We made it down to Camp II in one hour and a quarter, using the fixed rope they had left on the ice step, including cleaning up and carrying down all the remaining gear. We learned later that our sojourn on the ledge had given them some pause since they had heard our yodel from the summit at 10.30, then nothing… until they saw us scuttle at high speed down the bottom of the couloir. They were relieved, but surprised at the soundlessness of the yodeller who waited until actually at the tent before signalling success! I recorded a great sense of achievement and pleasure following that climb. Bob had been a terrific mate, climbing expertly in quite extreme conditions on what was a major new route. While very exposed and steep all the way, we had found the technical steps well within our grasp, and since the conditions were fairly good again, our support team , Allen and Dick, decided to have a go at it. We basked in the kaleidoscopic show above as mist acted like a slowed film shutter across the face. Turrets and ridges appeared and disappeared randomly as the marvelous light shifted from place to place. Sometimes we could see the tiny figures like flies on a wall. We watched them until they were out of sight in the gut of the couloir. We knew they would make it, and they did. We suddenly heard a `cooee', and they were there in our sights, but too far away to communicate verbally. I was disturbed by the icecliffs that marked the bottom of the route especially at that time in the afternoon, knowing what they must have already gone through. Yet they wasted no time, even abseiling the last bit free (out from the face) . We watched the whole thing, and what a pity Mac wasn't there with his telefoto lens. Allen described the final rappel as the hairiest part. He said Dick went over like a piece of rubbish, then skated out of the way at the bottom, while Allen contemplated the descent, then dropped like a reluctant stone. He said afterwards that he could see nothing but icicles threatening his impalement. So we all shot back down, to base and a blizzard of tales and comparisons of hardest parts of the climb. Amazing double shift on a hard assignment. These guys were showing me more and more how strong and tough they were, and what a team we all were, and I felt very grateful to be able to join them. I've been part of many extended trips into various mountain ranges, and never felt more trusting of judgment and skill of fellow climbers as a group than of these Kiwis. In these situations, one's life depends not only on one's own skill (and a huge handful of luck) but of course on those of others too, and also on the psychological health of the entire climbing `cluster' that makes up any particular `expedition'. The collective judgment is crucial, stemming from a cool, effective `leader' like Ken, and running like a balancing cybernetic behind all decisions. Whether or not to try a particular route on a particular day in the particular conditions of the moment (icefall, personal stamina, equipment, weather) comes down to judgment. Back home, as a professional climbing instructor for paying `clients', I subscribed to a general rule which held us all to `the standard of the day' which meant that any climb could be bypassed if the instructor didn’t feel exactly right. But when a group comes back all alive and healthy from a major new ascent, aside from the luck factor, survival reflects not only individual, but team support. All worthwhile adventures have `excedrin moments', where disaster is narrowly averted, and we certainly had some of ours, but I felt the organization was quite excellent, and that we were a capable, effective mountain expedition. We woke to a satisfying view of the Mellizos face from across from base, what a beautiful, impressive face it is, and all the more since we had learned to know it intimately. We had shared, touched it and now basked in the memory of its embrace. At about 6.0 am two Andean shepherds arrived up with spuds slung across their backs. One was wearing a Tibetan-style hat, and we produced the milk tins they were seeking. One would have sufficed, but Dick apparently owed them one additional tin, so we fessed up. We had a big breakfast, and I had four coffee brews without feeling bloated, lay on my Lilo and dispassionately ate porridge and eggs in the sun, and read a little while catching up on my log. All of a sudden, Mac rolled up from the other party, looking for some baccy. He'd walked around from the North Col in shorts (as usual) and we were glad to see him and get an update. He said they had successfully climbed, and filmed, Torayoc, and he outlined the route for us, with major difficulties confined as he said, to the last 500'. We had now climbed all the peaks that the Everest Foundation required for their grant (Cupola, the High Unnamed, and Torayoc as subsequently recorded )5 , and were thus in new territory. 4. Heading to Pumasillo It was the next day that found Bob and I high on the shoulder of Torayoc, and eager to share the experience this fine climb I cleaned my teeth tonight in readiness. We had time to reflect. We must be careful, I'm only here by invitation, for a short time, and thus in a way, on probation myself. I must be judged useful or not, by the team, and thus reciprocally by my own assessment of, and interaction with others . Paul Green, so my log records, has had two falls so far, one slip on a climb before I arrived - slipped off the glacier onto the moraine - and one on Torayoc for 50' over an ice bluff, where he was shaken but unhurt. He's an interesting character, among the strongest and most respected in our group, and has a quiet dignity and bearing that reached me through the Peruvians he had impressed even before I met him. Tall, lean, mature, he struck me as a standout, and the stories I heard were numerous. He did two years of a B. Comm. but finally gave it up. His father owned a trucking business, so Paul drives for a 5 see Evelio Echevarria `A Survey of Andean Ascents 1961-70' American Alpine Journal Supplement 1973. living, but tramps for a pastime, with phenomenal feats attributed to him, such as the Coxcomb Ridge on Mt Aspiring, with little gear, and a 50 mile run in one day to get a doctor for a crook friend. As I record, one of the most memorable in our group is Dick Cowan, whose rough diamond individuality we all respect. He seems an old-soldier type, tough, stubborn, and bears the scars. He seems by all accounts to have continually evolved as a climber since the expedition started, winning through by his integrity and competence. I am continually glad that Bob is my rope-mate. He is easy to get along with, and tolerates my tales and idiosyncracies with great patience. Most importantly, he is smart, tough and reliable. That trumps everything else to an ex-royal marine. So tomorrow, it is Torayoc or bust. Our holy grail is of course Pumasillo by the North Ridge, and all of this preparation is directed that way. Wandering outside the tent to gaze at the clear stellar panorama of an Andean night, I saw again, and drank inspiration from my favorite constellation. As an obstreperous northerner, the Southern Cross is my darling star, and every time I see it I draw deeply its elixir. Confidence returns for tomorrow. Looking back to the little tent stuck into the snow slope (the others who crafted this camp must have done a fair bit of digging) the candle inside flicking yellow against the dark flank of this mountain, I feel a moment of deep appreciation for warmth, comfort, good food, trusted company against the icy hostility of our environment. I am lucky with a now trusted young companion climber whose coolly introspective mind complements his raw strength. My log records that we get along well, and `he is strong, fast and determined..a satisfying `second', and a safe leader'. The capacity to relax in face of great stress (as one can learn for example in hard rock climbing, or any other dangerous endeavor) is useful, and well worth incorporating into one's skill-set . I have that tonight. We get up at 4.00 am tomorrow to start our Torayoc climb. At 3.00 am I rolled over and looked at my watch. Pulled back the tent flap and saw clear moonlit sky, and debated whether to wake Bob. As it turned out I split the difference and waited until 3.30 before cranking myself out of the bag for a routine venture into the cold, and get some fresh snow for the billy and a hot brew. It was very cold, we later learned -10 at base, and the snow pile at the tent door needed a North Wall hammer to loosen it. Porridge and two brews of cocoa and we were out. Watching the dawn come up over Nevado Blanco was really something, as we followed cut steps up over the hump above our camp. A steep snowplod for the next 500' and I was pulled up short on the rope. I looked back, and Bob's left Simonds crampon had broken. We fixed it together, and continued on. Things got steadily more interesting, and I was reminded of Mac's predictions. We had a sort of super-confidence going after Mellizos, and felt perhaps invincible. So much for that. Once we reached the crest of the ridge ahead, we realized the considerable challenge before us. We found ourselves on a knife-edged arète leading into a high cwm in the glacier coming up from the North Col. Out of that was a short and crevassy drop to a snow nevé, where we must take a final ridge that led awkwardly up for several hundred feet of sharp ice to rock buttresses surmounted by the pale summit beyond. low on Torayoc on the ridge The main advantage of course was the clear tracks of our pioneers, so we headed along the route until the ice became harder and crampon marks were difficult to discern. Eventually we made our own way, making two minor variations in the original route. I foolishly led up onto the ice arète too soon, leaving us some delicate corniced ridge to traverse until it suddenly seemed to cease in mid air. Below, on both sides, a long drop, but we persevered, and with occasional glances at our base camp down the awesome steep gulleys on the East face, we came to a ledge under the ice cliff which lay above the flutings the others had climbed. At the end of this, we found the first rock peg, complete with karabiner (!) from which they had abseiled down the flutings. Using this as a runner, I traversed out across beautiful sharp granite for about 40'and vertically up a Grade V groove to a ledge where we moved left, belayed on two rickety ice pegs, taking off my crampons since I was sure the summit was just above us, climbed another rather rotten vertical scoop (about Grade IV) to the ridg Bob on the summit Mac down low on the glacier, unbeknownst to us, was photographing, wondering why it took us so long over those last few feet, belaying so closely! So, we crouched, quite scared honestly, on the summit, for about two minutes then carefully retraced our steps. On the return, I collected all the previous crew's ironmongery, reversing the top rock pitch on a natural runner, and the lower section on a ring peg I had found near the high camp. We avoided what my log records as ` the stupid cornice', and were back at the tent at 12.45 for a total climbing time of six and three quarter hours. It took us less than an hour to pack up our camp, and we were back at base in less than an hour. Phew! At this point I record that our leader Ken says he thinks that our ascents in this region at this altitude (10 peaks, several new, and/or by new routes) are entirely unprecedented. And he pushes our vision and goal, once again, as the unclimbed N Ridge of Pumasiilo. And despite ourselves, we find that Bob and I are asked to be the summit team, backed up by Ken McNatty and Paul Green. How could the mountain deny such a distinguished assault? The next day (June 22nd) was logged as a well deserved rest day. A rat in a pack at base camp was arrested for due cause (big holes in our woollen gloves), given due process, tried, and found guilty. facing the accused with the evidence Paul Green and I were assigned as advance rope to move up the lower glacier and map a hauling route through the approach icefalls, a significant barrier to the base of Pumasillo's north ridge. I liked Paul, knew he was fit and fun to climb with, and we set off with a collective grin. I have the 23rd recorded as `the hardest day yet'. I didn't feel too good in the morning, flatulent at both ends, after a steaming brew of hot weetbix and tea. We left at dawn before six o'clock, up the moraine for two hours in between the Mitre and N Pumasillo glaciers, then put on overboots and crampons, roped up and headed high on beautiful snow. At first we welcomed the sun, but after a couple hours it became hostile, merciless, as though we were in a great white desert. Every movement, for either of us, became a huge effort, as route finding became more and more difficult, the angle became steeper, crevasses deeper, and snow bridges smaller and more precipitous. Many times we turned around, tried another way, our spirits seemed to dive lower, and the snow bridges got hairier. We zigged close to the eastern side at one point to avoid menacing ice cliffs. The glacier in its middle steep portion is margined at both sides by dark brown vertical earthy fans incessant salvoes of detritus. our route up between avalanche tracks We had to pick our way up through enormous crevasses surrounded by spectacularly tottering ice cliffs. Most unnerving, since loads would have to be lugged up through all of this. In the end, we marked the route with what Paul termed `the Eiffel Tower' poised over a final steep ice pitch that gained a small nevé where we could establish a high camp at the foot of the N ridge. higher ground at the start of the N ridge Paul leaves marks at our camp II site on Pumasillo It had taken us four hours to get up this far with light loads, and we had not left any fixed ropes since swift movement was the only safe way. We marked the spot, and began the long and treacherous route back to our camp. On the way down I slipped into a crevasse, cramponing my leg slightly through `overtrou', a sure sign of fatigue. I noted on return that I had not felt so exhausted since the start of the expedition, hoping it was not a sign I had shot my bolt. I professed doubts about packing up such a dangerous approach, yet the others were already loading up to get ready for tomorrow, having watched our route up and down. We had what I note was a `fine supper' of macaroni, spaghetti, the ubiquitous spuds, peaches, cream, coffee and fruit cake. Thank god for those twenty six mules that carried all this up to base before I arrived. Tomorrow, the plan is all eight of us leave with loads to the base of the avalanche gulch leading up towards the dreaded Eiffel Tower, where we can all view the route carefully and make an appraisal. Four will stay, and the decision will then be made as to whether and how to continue towards Ken's goal of all eight finally on top of the mountain. My concerns are not around the capabilities of the team, but around the incredible sun, and its brutal carving into the ice above us. 5. The Long-Anticipated North Ridge of Pumasillo Monday the 24th found four intrepid humans camped sat our new Camp I safely on a ledge under the difficult section of the northern glacier of Pumasillo. All eight of us had left in early morning with heavy loads, and I had gone up in front, feeling so much better. Amazing how one recovers, from lethargic, sleepy and weak one day, to quasi-invincible the next. Part of it is the normal athlete's familiarity with going through the psychological `wall' of pain/exhaustion to the other side, and part of it is luck in not coming down with something much more serious. We all felt this at various times, but the amazing part of this Kiwi team (as I had found in the Antarctic experience) was their reliable and robust recovery. The route up the gulch did not look so bad today, even the Eiffel Tower looked smaller from below. Four of us were to stay in our new Camp I, and the other four took off back down to act as support, leaving us to hack out platforms and pitch tents . I logged that we now have up here sufficient food/equipment for four people. Tomorrow it is planned that Bob and I will sleep high on the nevé above in a camp (Pumasillo Camp II) the four of us will establish at the high point we reached earlier. The next day we will reconnoiter the actual ridge above. We feel confident, and glad that we have a crack, but the snow conditions are pretty awful, and a huge avalanche of the face a little east of us had us ripping nervously at our tent doors to have a look. Ken's plan is that: a) tomorrow [25th] the four of us (he, Paul, Bob and I) climb from here (Camp I) up to the high camp (II), then he and Paul go back down to Camp I, where they meet the others who will bring more supplies up from Base to Camp I b) [26th] Bob and I `recce' the N ridge while Ken and Paul haul to CII, and all four of us sleep at CII, with support below at Camp I c) [27th assuming success in finding a route on the N ridge, the support team moves up to C II and everyone has a go. So, my log (25th) starts out `fUUck! what a day'… We camped finally at something we thought at around 19,000' on the North Ridge, in blowing snow, as we somehow got the tents pitched, and crawled inside. `This is a wild place' my log admits, and I recorded that we were extremely cold after getting gear sorted out in very rough conditions, cold and wind whistling continuously in our anorak hoods. The others had left their loads at the bottom of the `gulch' and Bob and I had double hauling up under the Eiffel Tower. Execrably soft snow over everything, making climbing, hauling, pitching and digging very difficult. UGH! Above us looms the corner peak, and somewhere above and beyond, the ridge. We are, as always, exposed in every way, weather, altitude, and verticality. The tent bangs and flaps. Not much chance of sleeping, and we are both very restless and stressed. Took 2 disprin with supper, and I took an extra pirophen to assuage a keen headache. The morning dawned somewhat better. We started out at 0715 on the morning of the 26th into clear visibility but a very sharp wind. We were late because of time taken to thaw out boots, and we left into soft snow with cold feet. I wore windproof overgear, and we were prepared to spend a night out bivouacing, with requisite duvets, down slippers, mitts etc. The snow was awfully soft from the fall the day before. The first challenge was a steep overhanging crevasse which we turned on the left by climbing on rock, quite exposed on the east side. This was followed by 500' of steep ice to the first summit, the Corner Peak, actually two peaks, a left and a right, quite dramatic. Ahead was a much higher, larger ice peak, split three or four times from the north side by crevasses and ice faces. Really a startling sight. We knew Pumasillo proper lay behind this aggressive hurdle, so we dropped the 500 or so feet of soft south facing snow to the col between the Corner Peak and Pumasiilo Chico (ahead). We started then up the hard icefield across two intimidating slots until we reached an ice shoulder at about 19,600' (estimated). We could now see the corniced summit several hundred feet above, but the ridge was broken by pillars and zawms, like a row of tottery buildings. We slid out onto the east face for a few apocalyptically exposed ropes lengths, and finished by climbing one of the ice flutings 200' to gain the ridge again, and thence to the first summit (Chico)6 . As we stepped one by one, with the pretense of careful but utterly insecure belays, onto the summit hump, we could see immediately ahead an extraordinary horizontal causeway of crazy ice and rock, like marshmallows on a fork. Bob said it looked as if a machine gun barrel had burst. Something between a mediaeval castle wall seen end-on and a factory chimney in a snowstorm7 . The diamond marks the site of next photo. The circle is highest point reached. 6 From here on, my ridge photos were only black and white 7 This picture of the summit made the cover of Summit Magazine, and the lead article in the 1969 issue We pressed on over the Chico summit, driven by imagined scent of the prize. We were almost the same altitude as Pumasillo's main peak, and it seemed so close. We descended down through corkscrew cornices, extremely exposed in the increasingly soft snow, up, and across gendarmes of about as much dependability for belays as a wedding cake. We were on severely corniced ice, about as wide as a person's back, within a few hundred feet of the summit now. On the west side, blue shining couloirs dropped straight down beneath our feet 6000' to the moraine. On the east it was equally exposed, but less steep, 60 degree ice steepening into flutings which shot again about 5000' down to the eastern basin. We were riding the tiger. I made my way along this crazy crumbling cookiewalk until I could see directly down between my boots into an impossible gap. I probably stood for several minutes without saying anything. Bob was muttering anyway, and his toes were freezing. The ridge dropped so steeply for perhaps 70' below me that I couldn't see it all, vertical, very soft snow, perhaps another split, then up to the final gendarmes leading to the summit of Pumasillo. Even if there was any way of protecting descent into the `gap' (our aluminum snow anchors were hopeless in this soft snow) the subsequently delicate traverse across those fragile snow-covered needles would have committed us to one way only, and there was no support team on the other side of the summit. Had there been another group on the traditional (west) route, it might have been worth trying. So I dug an axe in, turned around and invited Bob to have a look. Reaching me on the crest, his summary was characteristically brief and profane, but entirely in accord with mine. We had a serious task ahead of us just to get back to our and so began our fairly tense and disappointed retreat. We got back eventually to the Corner Peak camp (II)8 , and started our explanations. I felt entirely sure of our decision, and we knew that Simon Clark's expedition had looked down our ridge from the summit all those years earlier with assurance that the ridge would `never' be climbed. To my knowledge it never has, though we got mighty close. 6. The return I woke to atrociously sore eyes and blurred vision at Camp II , and realized that when my goggles dropped off yesterday on the ridge, though Bob picked them up from the snow, stupidly I hadn't worn them since. It was extremely cold, and because of our stories of the route's impenetrability, the others had decided to move quickly down to stop the rest of the team dragging up supporting loads. I was under pressure to hurry, but could barely see, and was in considerable pain from what I knew was an onset of blisters on the eyeball, a.k.a. snow-blindness. We were all demoralized and affected by the failure on the ridge, and were feeling both altitude and cold. I became a sad burden on my mates, taking the safe position, unceremoniously middle-roped down from Camp II. wobbling down under the seracs We somehow got down the gut safely under the Eiffel Tower, and met the others who were fortunately resting before carrying, and we debriefed them on the climb. Everyone seemed good-natured, and no one was overtly anxious to go up and have another go. My eyes were awful. I bandaged the worst one (left) and Allen kindly put some gantrisin into both. Ken generously wanted me to rest for a while, but I knew they were anxious to get moving on other climbs, and I needed to get off the snow which was agonizingly reflecting the sun onto my cornea. Bob and Paul arrived down from Camp II, and Paul, the good guy that he was, seemed determined to go straight back up to spend the night at the high camp, close it out, and bring all the stuff down past the Eiffel Tower again in the morning. That would make his eighth time through that gauntlet, a truly recognizable and much appreciated feat. Meanwhile, Bob and 8 There is a picture of our tents at this camp in the NZ Alpine Journal 1969 p xix Ken locked me in safely as middleman on their rope, and steered me in considerable pain and virtually blind, down to the moraine. This was my first experience of snowblindness, an excruciating sunburn of the eye surface, with no relief. If your eyes are closed they burn under the eyelids as if over an open flame, and if open, they stream with salty tears, blazed by the snowlight. `Down a little bit, now left, steep for a few feet, now a BIG step over the slot' …the instructions came in a steady monotone. Thank god for good, patient mates… after missing out on Pumasillo, they could have just left me to sort myself out and gone off to catch up on other peaks, but they got me down to the base, where I took some Restoril, and drifted thankfully off to sporadic dreamland. dealing with it The 28th passed slowly, and painfully. Rest. Damn eyes, streaming. I couldn’t see much, and didn’t want to. My nose was blocked, making mouth breathing and a dry throat inevitable. I had no idea how long this might take to heal, or whether infection of some sort might complicate matters. I decided just to leave everything alone, rest, and support my body as it did its job of recovery, as I had so many times before. with much appreciated help still, it hurt like hell The next day seemed an improvement, after getting further back down in altitude, though it was obviously folly for me to attempt to climb anything else in this condition, and I didn’t want to hold up the others in any way. My time was coming to a close anyway, and so I decided to head out alone the next day for the valley below, to spend some time perhaps at Macchu Pichu above the river, which I had always wanted to see but had passed below on the way in. It was truly a sad moment to say goodbye to all. My log notes `a quiet and touching farewell', but they were ready to go on, and had done so much for me, bringing me into their company, and giving me the chance at the most highly challenging routes, and a fine companion in Bob. I wished I could have gone on to more climbs with him, but it was not to be. We had gotten on famously, and have stayed in touch since. He has become a well known explorer/climber, with subsequent experience in both the Arctic and Antarctic. His highly reputable work since on disaster relief is internationally recognized and a fitting testimony to his strength and courage. I was in dubious shape for the 6 hour trek down the slippery moraine to the valley, carrying all my gear and some food. My pack seemed very uncomfortable, and my eyes still stung at each blink. FINALLY, HEADED BACK HOMEWARDS DOWN THE VALLEY I was more exhausted by the steady climbing regime than I thought, but pressed on alone towards fresh food, beer and transportation that didn’t rely solely on my feet and hands. Finally, I came to the first dwellings, and barking dogs drew the attention of the pueblo to the approaching, rather shattered gringo wobbling under his heavy rucsac. Surprisingly my two soldiers were still there, and accompanied me down further to the hacienda where we could purchase a beer and a good meal. The Commandante was also up in this high village, on some strange mission which I never understood, and he was also very welcoming. They supposedly arranged a mule for me to the next, larger pueblo, Paltaybamba, in the morning, and I went to supper wondering if it would materialize. The same newspapers were on the hacienda wall, the same unobtrusive dog picking up something you drop very quietly. The same excellent, and so welcome, two helpings of food, and aromatic tea, and corn in the center of the plastic table cloth. The same lackadaisical air around the courtyard, as two men tried to explain to me in quechuan dialect that they were the very mule drivers that had brought the veintiséis mulas on the original expedition entry to this valley. They must get tired of dusty football and cards, but they are so warmly welcoming to strangers like me, and I wish I could repay them in some more meaningful way. Santos, the more sympathetic of the two soldiers, with whom I had shared the Kennedy moment on the little radio several weeks before, was a real gentleman this evening. Sensing my exhaustion and general dishevellment, he got me out an old, flea-bitten mattress, saw me climb into my sleeping bag, and told me to call him during the night if I needed anything. What I really needed was a hot bath and clean clothes, but that was not to be. I slept fitfully, woken often by boisterous drunken sounds from the courtyard. The first of July dawned dimly, and I realized it was a good job I had come out early. I felt very crook, as the adrenalin had all drained out, and the mañana factor began to kick in again. The promised mule did not appear, and I was faced with the prospect of another day loafing at this pueblo (Pocyura) though there was an upside. I truly needed to slow down, and the opportunity was therefore an advantage, but I was restless. Green parakeets screeched around like jets, and I decided to take a wander up to the Inca ruins they had pointed to high above on the hillside. My local guide was very unfit, and I had to support him on the way up and down, since his shoes were not suited at all to the very steep turf and rocky ground. The ruins were amazing, and I marveled at the huge, carefully fitted stones and oddly high steps. Why did such small people build such enormous steps? The site was clearly a tactical one, with a clear, supreme view both up and down the long valley. The intricate organization of dwelling, water course, and flat vs steep ground again demonstrated how successfully these indigenous folks incorporated sustainability principles into their adaptation to such harsh surroundings. My guide was somewhat less well adapted. His shoes were simply treacherous, and the slope, being an approach to an Incan site, had to be tricky. He made it up OK, with some help from me. Finally, however, on the way down after sliding a few feet painfully over the rocky scarp on his bum, he snatched a branch from a tree, and with the correct word in english - `grandfather' - he began half mockingly to lean on the stick as he picked and slipped his way down. After a few more lurches, he said disgustedly `grand MOTHER'.. and grinned. Upon return to the pueblo, the promised mule had miraculously appeared, but no sorgas to hold my gear onto its back. It looked really as though I would lose the day, until out of the mulga came a most unlikely if utterly most welcome pair, Genevieve, a real estate broker from Paris, mapping Inca ruins, with her escort, appropriately named Rodolfo, a student assistant from the University of Cuzco. I gathered there had been a husband in the picture somewhere, but not in evidence, and she proved a highly entertaining, competent and friendly multilingual travelling companion. She sorted out the sorgas problem immediately, and after a convivial lunch, we set off down the valley with bags bound immovably onto the mule's saddle frame with many lengths of tough thin sisal rope produced from inside their own baggage. Another, of many lessons: always carry some of this in mule country. The mule started obediently trotting down the track with not only my bag, but theirs as well, for me at least a previously unattainable feat. This was just a show, to get me thoroughly fooled. I found out also while unpacking later, my hemp waistline, a long held trophy from marine commando climbing days9 , had been surreptitiously transformed into one of the crucial underlying lacings to the wooden frame mount. Fair payment I thought. 9 this early form of protection predated modern climbing harnesses, and consisted of several feet of thin hemp, wound around the waist about four times, and tied off twice (once halfway) to guard against breaking. We were accompanied for the first half mile by a laughing cavalier who kept us waiting an extra three quarters of an hour while he constructed some `papers' for me and some for other authorities in our destination Paltaybamba. One page, laboriously tapped out on an ancient typewriter, introduced me as `JHON LARWONCE Alpinista de Pumasillo'. As he struggled to find extra stuff for us to deliver for him, he finally handed us a wrapped parcel, the contents of which none of us ever discovered, but he seemed to know that delivery would be no problem. I eventually caught up with Genevieve and Rodolfo wandering through the next pueblito (Tarqui), had a meal there, and got to the next village (Oyara) in the dark, where we slept in the school house. My first aid kit came in handy for a frenchwoman's bum. Sore from mule riding, she confided that two long blisters in the unmentionables were giving trouble, so it was `doctor' Lawrence humbly to the rescue. All sorts of contortions followed in Rodolfo's corner as the ailment was treated, and my expert contribution stopped short at merely supplying the raw materials. Walking in the dark that evening, I had cogitated on how I was perhaps unusually aware of the dangers of stepping on a `fer de lance', though experiences in south Asia, particularly Iran and Afghanistan, had primed me to the menace of large semi-feral dogs always in peripatetic evidence around any human habitation, with courage enhanced by the night. The most effective strategy, I learned was to have a supply of cricket ball-sized stones handy. During daytime, just the movement of bending down as if to pick them up was enough to back them off. After sundown however, it was necessary to fire off rocky missiles, and the thud and scrape and occasional yelp would suffice. We only lost our load once, through inefficient lashing, a considerable improvement over my inward journey. It was the same mule, blond colored, with a steady, knowingly docile smile, but after the promising start, I simply could not get her to do what I wanted. We got on much better in the dark, when she was content to follow me. Parenthetically, I noted how much more comfortable I felt with a woman companion (not the mule), especially such an educated, alert Frenchwoman even if she did have blisters on her bum. She was terrific company, as was Rodolfo, and I felt very lucky to have found them. The Peruvian night high in the Amazon watershed was full of crickets, fireflies, frogs and a huge moon. Most of the journey so far we had been talking nonstop about the Incas and their incredible capacities for survival, their great `lost' city, somewhere deep in the Vilcabamba. Genevieve and her escort were on a serious quest. She struck me as one cool lady, changing for sleep even in these stark conditions, and I caught the flash of a nightgown in a wanton flicker of candlelight before turning away in my smelly bag to sleep, perchance to dream. Coquipata was only six hours further, and I hoped we would pass through Paltaybamba at midday, with less chance of total inebriation at Bauer's bar. We awoke to the sound of children's voices, since we were camped in their school. They gazed curiously in the doorway at two drowsy gringos, and a young Bolivian student who was already up and shoeing one of the horses. We desayunoed from leche y pan both provided from US Alliance for Progress stamped sacks in the schoolhouse corridor. It occurred to me ironical that I had already paid for that breakfast with my taxes. We moved off into the steamy flyblown morning past the waving schoolchildren and their barefoot mothers, grateful for their hospitality as always. Several hours later we rounded the corner into the Paltaybamba puesto, a characteristic place indeed. An old Spanish courtyard, long sweeping rooves, and yellow high walls, and the open armory with locked, chained weapons stacked in rows. And again, Señor Bauer! Great vivid handshakes almost dislocating my shoulder, with more jokes about my thin legs, and a warm greeting from the señora, though Fisher was lost and a new pup had his place named Chocolata, a little female bundle of ferociousfur. With a combination of my outrageous flattery and madame's wiles and of course her fluent spanish, we oiled our way into an enormous lunch and a covey of mules all the way to Coquipata. While the others had more sense, I ravenously attacked the food, drinking the fresh orange juice as if from a fountain. I should have remembered that Paltaybamba was a symbol for me of excess of one kind or another, and I suffered horribly for the next six miles, throwing up continuously, and walking crouched in a permanent `S' shape. On arrival in Coquipata, Genevieve whipped up a local supply of alkaseltzer powder from a local store, but I felt no better. A very delicate looking señorita in charge of the store started my recovery by inquiring gently why I looked so beat up, and learning why, insisted on giving me mansanilla and two gruesome looking grey pills. I shied away from the latter initially, partly because of built-in doubts about local apothecaries, and also because I wasn't sure if a cup of tea and two pills would fit inside me tidily. Finally Madame, who after all had been making all the decisions for two days, persuaded me . She later encouraged me, out of civil duty, to take a freezing cold shower at Santa Maria. After the pills, I felt instantly much improved. I wish I had kept one of them for analysis, since if I had rolled over and died in paroxysms, it might have been useful. We slept that night in the army barracks as official guests of the Commandant to the sound of sentries shouting their five minute warnings to each other. After the shower, my first in almost two months, I rejoiced in partial cleanliness, thanks to Genevieve, though climbing back into more or less the same clothes did little to relieve odorous tensions. Fortunately, bodily naturalness is a cultural norm in these valleys, and the absence of tourists on the local transport (trucks and trains) meant I fitted in quite well. We rushed to the tracks in Santa Maria to catch the train, second class, and crowded enough to remind me of Indian third class from Calcutta to Madras several years earlier. The women wore tall white hats, and the men were in old sewn up jackets, dressed up respectably for travel, making me rethink my assessment of my own rather disreputable state. There was a mini-struggle at every station to get on and off, a bit like today's rush-hour subway. The town of Santa Theresa came and went, and I got some excellent wrapped chocolate bought through the train window from a platform vendor, which I shared with our little team. Finally we got to Machu Pichu, and got off the train with a great fight to haul our bags through the oncoming tide of humanity. Madame insisted on arranging for our bags to be left at the museo at the bottom, and on paying the 20 soles for the collectivo bus up to the ruins. That's of course when our money really started to flow, 50 soles each to see the ruins, roughly a hundred a meal each, plus tidy little extras like beer. Well, I hadn't spent a penny for a while, and this was after all a world wonder. We met several interesting people, including a large Sierra Club group on a trip from Salcantay where they had encountered Japanese climbers. We slept that night in the ruins, an unforgettable experience, accompanied by much wine and lots of conversation, and I remember watching the dawn come up over the startling silhouette of Inca walls, jagged peaks, and deep jungled chasms and the river below. Beyond was the hint of ice, many miles distant, framed in between the high passes. At some point, we made it up the second peak, Hauyana Pichu, enjoying the vista back to the extraordinary layout of the fortified structure below. The long water courses, huge steps and immaculately fitted boulders are astounding. Short of Petra, this place remains the most memorable site of human construction I have ever seen. At this point, my log comes to a stop in midsentence. The reason is etched in my memory, and probably permanently in my entrails as well. On the way back to Cuzco on the train, I did what I had done both ways, but this time - perhaps reflecting my low resistance and some congenital laziness - with far less care. I took food from the platform vendor through the train window, including some very unsanitary but delicious pork. How I made it to the hotel I do not know, but remained semi-conscious for at least three days locked in my room, horribly sick and fevered, unable to move except to throw up in the vague direction of receptacles. Afterwards, when I asked why they had left me so long, they said I had left a `do not disturb' sign on the door. When I finally surfaced to loud and insistent knocking, and folks came in to horror at the mess, I was immediately visited by first nurses then doctors, who took me somewhere, and I slowly recovered until I was well enough to be put on the plane back to the US. It was a bitter end to a great climbing experience. I have never been so grotesquely sick in my life and it took me almost year to recover fully after the diagnosis of typhoid fever upon return to Morganton. Most surprisingly, I remember that these doctors in the mountains of western North Carolina were already quite familiar with this, telling me they had seen several cases in local populations. Since that time however, my stomach has been as tough as a seagull's, and I have never (yet) suffered any serious upsets, despite much travel in underdeveloped communities throughout Asia and Africa. So maybe there is some advantageous immunity there, but still I don't recommend it. In the end, the expedition climbed some 20 peaks by 28 routes, with 11 first ascents, and found new Inca sites including a previously undiscovered road. My gratitude remains firm for having survived, and I'm ever thankful to my trusty and tolerant Kiwi mates, and most especially to Bob, for putting up with me for many weeks of unforgettable mountain memory. The climbs, and other Inca explorations were often recounted in newspaper articles, books and climbing journals, a partial list of which is appended below. THANKS BOB!!! 1. Pumasillo's North Ridge. John E S Lawrence. Summit Magazine. September 1969. pp 2-9 2. NZ Climbers faced many problems. R. McKerrow. Otago Daily Times. October 12, 1968 3. Altitude was our greatest enemy. R McKerrow. Otago Daily Times (date?) 1968 4. The Puma's Claw. K McNatty, Bob McKerrow, and Mac Riding. NZ Alpine Journal 1969 pp 49-63. 5. The World At Their Feet. Philip Temple. Whitcombe and Tombs. Christchurch., NZ. 1969 p 189. 6. Ascents in Pumasillo Group, Cordillera Vilcabamba. American Alpine Journal pp 436-8 7. A Survey of Andean Ascents 1961-1970. Echevarría E. Supplement to American Alpine Journal. 1973 pp 384-7. 8. Pumasillo Area: NZ Expedition 1968. UK Alpine Journal. 1969 pp 256-261.. which has an incorrectly titled picture of the N Ridge of Pumasillo (photo # 122 on p 258, which is in fact the N Ridge of Nevado Blanco, taken by Ken McNatty… see NZ Alpine Journal 1969 p61<br />
If you want to see the article with photos, <a href="http://www.jeslawrence.com/PDFs/peru_story3.pdf">click here.</a><br />
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-73870601894421459562018-03-27T15:46:00.000-07:002018-03-27T15:46:48.102-07:00The loves and tragedies of Dorothy of Franz Josef<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The Monday Extract: The loves and tragedies of Dorothy of Franz Josef</h1>
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<a href="https://thespinoff.co.nz/author/cheryl-riley/" rel="author" style="background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #cccccc; text-decoration-line: none;" title="View all posts by Cheryl Riley"></a><br />
<div class="avatar" style="background-image: url("https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Screen-Shot-2018-03-26-at-1.22.33-PM.png"); background-position: center center; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: cover; border-radius: 60px; box-sizing: border-box; filter: grayscale(1); float: left; height: 60px; margin: -1px 10px 20px 0px; opacity: 0.75; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: bottom; width: 60px;" title="Cheryl Riley is the author of Guts and Determination: History Makers in Westland, published in March 2018. She reported on the West Coast for over 30 years as a photo journalist for the Hokitika Guardian and other papers, and is also a black sand gold miner and a registered whitebaiter. She continues to compete in local triathlons. Cheryl was born in Christchurch in 1947.">
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<strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">An extract from a fascinating new book by ex-<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Hokitika Guardian</em> journalist Cheryl Riley, who tells the stories of remarkable men and women of Westland.</strong></div>
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Dorothy Fletcher was born in 1927, the youngest of four children to Alec and Isabella Graham, part-owners of the Franz Josef Hotel. Her mother did not keep good health after Dorothy was born and she grew up guided by her father’s common sense philosophy. Dorothy adored him. “Daddy told us to use our heads – we did – and it worked,” she said.</div>
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Barefoot winter and summer, Dorothy learnt mountaineering, guiding, and Search and Rescue. Watching her father organise the construction and maintenance of the water supply, the hydro system, the hotel and later the setting up of the National Parks, she also learned the hospitality industry inside out. She knew every person living in the area, well enough to think of them as family.</div>
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But she was sent to boarding school in Christchurch, to Rangi Ruru. It was “ghastly” wearing a school uniform every day – shoes, socks, tie, blazer, hat and gloves. There was worse. “We were not allowed to seal our letters. It was hateful to know that the headmistress had access to the contents. We were not allowed to go anywhere alone – except to the toilet. Oh yes we were alone in our three-minute bath every second day. The matron ran the bath to three inches deep. Then she timed us – we were allowed not a second over three minutes.”</div>
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Travelling to and from school meant a four-hour drive from Franz Josef to the train station in Hokitika. It sometimes happened that there was no one to meet Dorothy when she got off the train. Instead of panicking the young student used her head as her father had so wisely taught her. “I would race around trying to find a ride. The first option was Captain Bert Mercer’s Fox Moth aeroplane at the Southside Airport. Many was the time I would race across the railroad bridge to catch the plane as it was about to leave.”</div>
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When World War II was declared, there was an exodus of Franz Josef community members, including hotel staff. The high school student seized her advantage, and returned home. “And so began the best – well the most precious years of my life.”</div>
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The day began before daylight in the laundry where fires had to be lit to heat water in a copper container set in concrete over a fire box. White towels, and bed and table linen went into the water to be boiled with soap, and agitated by hand with a stick. The washed linen was then put through a handwringer and into a long concrete trough of cold rinsing water. It was put through the wringer again, dropped into cane baskets, carried outside and pegged with wooden pegs onto a long, single wire clothesline.</div>
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<img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-132790" height="452" sizes="(max-width: 810px) 100vw, 810px" src="https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Scan-17.jpg" srcset="https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Scan-17.jpg 810w, https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Scan-17-300x167.jpg 300w, https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Scan-17-768x429.jpg 768w" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; height: auto; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle; width: 810px;" width="810" /></div>
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All was well when the sun shone and the wind blew but at Franz Josef, nestled in rain forest beneath the Southern Alps, perfect drying days were not that regular. When it rained the washing was piled into a cart and transferred across a yard to a room set aside for drying. The room had two metal stoves that needed regular stoking.</div>
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“The mornings were the busiest, especially in the kitchen when there were often more than 100 packed lunches to prepare and the wood fire had to be kept well stoked for cooking porridge, bacon, eggs and toast for around 200 guests.” Mutton, beef, pork, turkey, duck, chicken and geese were reared for the hotel table on the family farm.</div>
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Staff shortages during the war started to take its toll on the Graham family and they decided to sell the hotel business in 1947. That year the hotel had accommodated over 5000 guests. The business had simply grown too big to be run by one family. Sale negotiations were underway when a fire broke out that destroyed the annex and killed four people. However, the sale went ahead. Alec and Peter Graham continued mountain guiding and the hotel burnt to the ground in August 1954. More than 10 years passed before the Government decided to build another very grand hotel at Franz Josef.</div>
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<img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-132791" height="551" sizes="(max-width: 810px) 100vw, 810px" src="https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/image001-1.jpg" srcset="https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/image001-1.jpg 810w, https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/image001-1-300x204.jpg 300w, https://thespinoff.scdn5.secure.raxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/image001-1-768x522.jpg 768w" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; height: auto; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle; width: 810px;" width="810" /></div>
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Dorothy’s life took on a whole new meaning when she met Peter King in 1957. She was 30 and for the first time in her life she was smitten. King was a handsome war hero who was awarded the Military Cross as a British Commando in World War II. He immigrated to New Zealand in 1946 and joined the New Zealand Army in 1950. Serving as a captain in the Korean War, he lay seriously wounded in the battlefield and was saved by Gunner Derek Rixon who was also wounded but managed to carry his captain to safety. King was awarded a Distinguished Service Order and Rixon was awarded a Distinguished Conduct Medal for this heroic deed.</div>
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Completely at home on the glacier and in the mountains, her new masculine companion measured up to the challenge. Together they traversed every nook and cranny in the Franz Josef Valley and mountains. In 1959 they were married and the next year Peter King became the first Westland National Park Board appointed ranger. Their cup of happiness was overflowing. They had a son and Dorothy was in the home after giving birth to a baby girl when tragedy struck on December 12, 1962.</div>
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Peter was on his way to visit his wife and daughter when his vehicle went off the road and into Lake Wahapo. Dorothy was left to bring up the two children on her own.</div>
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Dorothy worked for the Department of Conservation at an information kiosk near the terminal face of the Franz Josef Glacier. The new chief ranger, Peter Fletcher, frequently called into the kiosk for a chat. One day the ranger’s head appeared around the kiosk door and he popped a question: “Why don’t we grow old together?”</div>
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Dorothy liked the idea and they were married in 1974. For the second time in her life Dorothy found happiness married to a Franz Josef Chief Conservation Ranger by the name of Peter. Sadly tragedy loomed just around the corner yet again. After three years of marriage Peter Fletcher was killed crossing the Copland Pass. Peter was with a party of Westland National Park Board members when he and Jim Maitland fell to their deaths on the Mount Aoraki/Cook side of the pass.</div>
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Dorothy was philosophical about suffering another devastating loss. “I am no worse off after growing up in the worst Depression,” she said, “and managing on my own with two children and very little money.”</div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">From </em>Guts and Determination: History Makers in Westland<em style="box-sizing: border-box;"> by Cheryl Riley, available for $49.95 from selected bookstores on the West Coast, by emailing the author (write_riley@xtra.co.nz) or through her <a href="https://www.facebook.com/GutsandDeterminationBook/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel" rel="noopener" style="background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #fa9d91; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>.</em></div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-58047371850661594522018-02-21T17:30:00.000-08:002018-02-21T17:30:53.385-08:00Charles Beken - Christchurch Photographer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One of New Zealand's leading mountain, landscape, flora and portrait photographers was Charles Beken.<br />He was the son of Thomas Beken and Eleanor Hurst born 11 September 1859 on board the immigrant ship "Zealandia" which sailed London 11 August 1859 - arrived Lyttelton 12 November 1859. </div>
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The photograph below is one of Bekens which appeared in "The Flora of Mount Cook - A Handbook by Arnold Wall", (The Lyttelton Times Co., Christchurch, 1925). Many <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">others grace the publication.</span></div>
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It was during the 1907 International Exhibition at Hagley Park in Christchurch that Beken got to know the West Coast doctor, and photographer, Dr. Ebenezer Teichelmann. They formed a .life-long friendship. Beken died 1 December 1944 aged 85 years. Beken's photos are spread amongst Te Papa, The National Library and Canterbury Museum.</div>
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I offer a word f caution for those researching NZ mountaineering history. Late last year while assisting the staff at Hokitika Museum identify some unmarked photographs in their extensive collection, I came across a number of superb photos taken by Beken. I can identify most photographs taken by Ebenezer Teichelmann, and in most cases, those of Henery Newton.<br />But where it becomes confusing is in that era, photographers shared photographs with one another. This was normally done to assist others to put together a more comprehensive lantern slide presentation.</div>
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When examining photographic collections in Hokitika Museum last year I noticed how collections get mixed up. Teichelmann and Newton shared photos freely with each other. W.A. Kennedy was a friend of Teichelmann and a good photographer too. In fact, he sorted and annotated the doctor's collection and displayed them in albums. I picked up one of two mistakes in his captioning. Then you find photos of H.M ( Merle) Sweeney from Hokitika in other collections. I also found photographs taken by H.E.L Porter too.</div>
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But today with digital images, it even gets more confusing. If you are interested in reading more about Charles Beken, and viewing his photos go to an excellent blog, <a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="async" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fcanterburyphotography.blogspot.co.nz%2F2014%2F10%2Fbeken.html&h=ATNbqmb2YCQoRyiTowNW7SwunVN-ojwSYMFCFPFYKmGbFm1YM_eFCj4g-8FWbJsJ2ceHYEhQXE9Cule0M4n7UojDNJHh8DEKAiwAZbdxhJBS9wQLu_nm0LlR_sdbkQLhoEsLovKjN7fKJgOS1Ao9q_J9u6ngq7Cc3XUJP7T_td-_CrnDhzNJvNEZ8ch1nzTstd4HtwTqJbz9hstC5nd9qkQcYMhgVwrOmr01vj3qtw" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">http://canterburyphotography.blogspot.co.nz/20…/…/beken.html</a> These photos have been reproduced with their permission.</div>
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Here are some more photos with<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">description from </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center; white-space: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Industrial Exhibition 1895<br />... Mr Charles Beken shows some exceedingly nice work, one of the most attractive specimens of which is No. 78, an enlarged portrait of a child, charming in its delicacy and softness...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><b>Star,</b></span> Issue 5371, 24 September 1895, Page 4</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fX_Iqfy0My0/VFRTD5ywHoI/AAAAAAAAuBw/-ZCgQWIoaJM/s1600/Beken%2B2014%2BNov%2B1%2B%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #956839; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fX_Iqfy0My0/VFRTD5ywHoI/AAAAAAAAuBw/-ZCgQWIoaJM/s1600/Beken%2B2014%2BNov%2B1%2B%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" style="border: 0px;" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Millbrook Reserve - an open air fernery on the Avon riverside, Christchurch"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">blind stamped "C. Beken - Chch"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">protected C. Beken 25/5/2- </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H3E_VApnf6Q/VFRTAu92CoI/AAAAAAAAuBo/LsVpiD0pUZg/s1600/Beken%2B2014%2BNov%2B1%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #956839; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H3E_VApnf6Q/VFRTAu92CoI/AAAAAAAAuBo/LsVpiD0pUZg/s1600/Beken%2B2014%2BNov%2B1%2B.jpg" style="border: 0px;" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">reverse inscribed</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Please return R. B. Owen, 751 Colombo St"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> [Richard Bedward Owen - see <i>Rich Man, Poor Man, Environmentalist, Thief, </i>Biographies of Canterbury personalities written for the Millennium and for the 150th anniversary of the Canterbury Settlement by Richard L N Greenaway]</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_kY2j4wImA8/VHqOeWoV6nI/AAAAAAAAuo8/7JKFxUaw80g/s1600/Beken%2B2014%2BNov%2B30%2BSBS.jpg" style="color: #956839; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_kY2j4wImA8/VHqOeWoV6nI/AAAAAAAAuo8/7JKFxUaw80g/s1600/Beken%2B2014%2BNov%2B30%2BSBS.jpg" style="border: 0px;" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> An unidentified bush scene by Charles Beken</span></div>
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<br style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;" /><br style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;" /><span style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;">HOW A LIBERAL GOVERNMENT TREATS LABOUR.<br />TO The EDITOR OF "THE Press<br />" Sir, —I would like to ask your advice on the following matter: —Last October I did a lot of photographic work for the Government Tourist Department, for their exhibit in the Industrial Exhibition held here last November, and up to date have not been able to get payment for it. My account was rendered to the Tourist Department here, and the officer in charge informs me he "passed" it and forwarded it to the head office. He informs me he has written about it and other accounts for work done for tho same Exhibition, and that none have been paid yet (although it is now six months ago). I have also written myself about it, and was informed that my account had been passed, and that a cheque would reach me at an early date. But the early date does not come. When next I enquired, I was told that all accounts would be squared up before Mr Massey took charge of affairs, but as Mr Massey did not take charge of affairs my account has not been paid. The next time I enquired, it was All accounts would be paid by the end of March the end of the Government financial year. I would be glad if you could inform me what is the best thing to do in the matter. Can I place it in the hands of a solicitor to take proceedings, as the Department evidently does not intend to pay it unless something is done. I would like to state that the prices charged for the work done by me were the prices fixed by the Tourist Department, viz., for lantern slides, 1s each, and for 23in. x 17in. enlargements, 5s each (I would like to know how many firms would like to do work at those sweating prices), and the other work was done at the same ridiculously low rates, and then the Government do not pay for the work till months after. A great proportion of the money was paid out for materials, and as I am only a working man, working on my own account, it is too bad to be kept waiting all these months for my money.—Yours, etc., CHAS. BEKEN.<br /><br />We trust that the publication of the above letter will have the result desired by our correspondent.—Ed. "The Press.</span><br style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;" /><span style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;">Press, Volume LXVIII, Issue 14331, 17 April 1912, Page 7</span><br style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;" /><br style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;" /><br style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;" /><br style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: normal;" /><div style="background-color: #fff3db; color: #29303b; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: center; white-space: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Six photographs by Charles John Beken were published in the book</span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">New Zealand Memories by Brenda Guthrie, M.B.E. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Published - John Lane, The Bodley Head Limited, 1930.</span><br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.4px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ti Tree, or Manuka"</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5KpE4tN1srw/VIOFj0SxrMI/AAAAAAAAusM/e-eTgEm07pw/s1600/2014%2BDec%2B7_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #956839; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5KpE4tN1srw/VIOFj0SxrMI/AAAAAAAAusM/e-eTgEm07pw/s1600/2014%2BDec%2B7_0002.jpg" style="border: 0px;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.4px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Mt. Cook and Hooker Glacier shewing Mountain "Lillies"</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.4px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Bush" showing Birch trees and ferns</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.4px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Ribbonwood, native of New Zealand</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.4px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mountain Lillies which love the snow</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Photographs by Charles Beken appeared in "The Flora of Mount Cook - A Handbook by Arnold Wall", The Lyttelton Times Co., Christchurch, 1925. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A photograph of the Canterbury Museum by Charles Beken is shown in "Heritage New Zealand," Historic Places Trust, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">page 54, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">issue 130, Spring 2013.</span></div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-67690494211798314642017-11-06T23:03:00.002-08:002017-11-06T23:06:50.530-08:00Extreme skiers tell of snatching Kiwi powder prize on Aoraki/Mt Cook<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<figcaption style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #808285; display: inline-block; float: left; font-size: 12px; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 5px 0px 10px;"><span class="caption credit col-sm-12 under-image" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block; float: left; line-height: 1.5em; min-height: 1px; position: relative; width: 620px;">The trio skied down the Caroline Face of Aoraki/Mt Cook, which is threatened by numerous ice cliffs. Photo / Tom Grant, Instagram</span></figcaption></figure></header></div>
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<span class="author author-space" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block;"><span class="author " style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block;"><a data-ref-page-element="othr:body:author:1:1" href="http://www.nzherald.co.nz/author/martin-johnston/" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; text-decoration-line: none;">By: <span class="section-national-color author-title" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #38a3d7; font-family: "source sans pro bold" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Martin Johnston</span></a></span></span><br />
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<span class="author author-space" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block;">Senior journalist, NZ Herald</span></div>
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Three top European skiers have snatched the New Zealand extreme </div>
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skiing prize - the first descent of the dangerous, avalanche-swept </div>
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Caroline Face of Aoraki/Mt Cook.</div>
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Italian Enrico Mosetti and Britons Ben Briggs and Tom Grant made </div>
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the 2000m descent from the mountain's summit ridge in about 90 </div>
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minutes on Friday.</div>
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Grant on Saturday described their feat on Instagram as an </div>
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"unforgettable adventure".</div>
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"The icing on the cake was skiing it in powder most of the way."</div>
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From Mt Cook village, the excited trio described their feat to </div>
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the Herald.</div>
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"I think it is not the steepest line, but it's really long," said Mosetti. </div>
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"It's a really big face and probably the biggest problem is to find </div>
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really good and right conditions and of course the route finding.</div>
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"There's nothing so big in the Alps except maybe for the East </div>
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Face of [4634m] Monte Rosa - that's even not that complicated."</div>
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Peter Gough, the first man to climb the Caroline Face in 1970.</div>
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The group left the hut on the Grand Plateau at around 1am, ascended the East Ridge to near Middle Peak and traversed to Porter Col to begin their descent at around 10.30am.</div>
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With a rope they made two abseils down the steepest, top part of their line before traversing to ski down the route of the first ascent, made in November 1970.</div>
<span style="font-family: "source sans pro light" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They were lucky that the band of ice cliffs in the middle of the route was less steep than in some years and they found a ramp to ski before making a third abseil.</span><img alt="British extreme skier Ben Briggs. Photo / Facebook" class="image-lazy hi-res" data-original="http://www.nzherald.co.nz/resizer/dHca4ePFiGmvwzaKISy5drbp84I=/620x612/smart/filters:quality(100)/arc-anglerfish-syd-prod-nzme.s3.amazonaws.com/public/MKHDODAS7BGIRCO3KQNMXPT4TY.jpg" data-url="http://www.nzherald.co.nz/sport/news/article.cfm?c_id=4&objectid=11937827#MKHDODAS7BGIRCO3KQNMXPT4TY" id="MKHDODAS7BGIRCO3KQNMXPT4TY" src="https://www.nzherald.co.nz/resizer/dHca4ePFiGmvwzaKISy5drbp84I=/620x612/smart/filters:quality(100)/arc-anglerfish-syd-prod-nzme.s3.amazonaws.com/public/MKHDODAS7BGIRCO3KQNMXPT4TY.jpg" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline; vertical-align: middle;" /></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><b>John Glasgow made the first ascent of the Caroline with Peter Gough</b></span><span style="text-align: left;">.</span></div>
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It is extremely dangerous because of the risk of an out-of-control fall on steep ice, being swept away by an avalanche, and being hit by falling rock or ice that has broken away from the ice cliffs.</div>
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Extreme skiers have been eyeing the Caroline for more than a decade, but most, including a Red Bull team, have been deterred by unfavourable conditions.</div>
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Swedes Magnus Kastengren and Andreas Fransson lined up at the top of the face in preparation for the first ski descent November 2013, but Kastengren slipped from Porter Col and fell 600m to his death down the other, western side of the mountain.</div>
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Fransson died in September 2014 in an avalanche on Monte San Lorenzo in Chile.</div>
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Grant said Kastengren was in their thoughts at Porter Col.</div>
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"He was a friend of ours from Chamonix [in France] - for sure, thought about it and looked at where he presumably fell."</div>
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Briggs said they felt unsafe only once.</div>
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"We stuck pretty much to the spur and you are not too exposed. The only part you feel in any danger is at the very end where you have to get out through a maze of crevasses and seracs [ice towers] but it's not very steep and we spent maybe a couple of minutes going through there on skis."</div>
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Nothing went awry and an avalanche that crossed one of their tracks "wasn't huge", said Grant.</div>
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"We have got a solid team here. Everybody is switched on and dialled. The skiing was definitely within our comfort zone."</div>
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Simon Middlemass, manager of the NZ Alpine Club's lodge at the village, said earlier he had heard the skiers took the climbing line "and that would be really impressive because the bottom part of the route is really threatened by ice cliffs".</div>
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John Glasgow made the first ascent of the Caroline with Peter Gough. Glasgow said he was not surprised the face had been skied.</div>
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He said conditions varied greatly and sometimes the ice cliffs would make the face virtually impossible to ski.</div>
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"You make one mistake and that's the last mistake you make; you don't get to make two mistakes."</div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-1094852789402325652017-11-05T15:28:00.000-08:002017-11-05T15:29:38.955-08:00NORMAN HARDIE - 28/12/1924 - 30/10/2017 - NEW ZEALAND MOUNTAINEER & ENGINEER<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">NORMAN HARDIE - OBITUARY by Colin Monteath</span></div>
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I first met Christchurch mountaineer Norman Hardie in May 1983 outside my favourite old bookshop in New Regent Street. At the time I was Field Operations Officer for the New Zealand Antarctic Research Programme so I introduced myself and asked Norman if he fancied a 5-month stint as leader of Scott Base. I knew that Norman had been to Antarctica before as a survival instructor in the early 1960s and, in 1967, as a surveyor with Sir Edmund Hillary’s New Zealand expedition that went on to make the first ascent of the elegant Mt Herschel in North Victoria Land.</div>
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I felt sure that Norman's mana as an internationally-recognised mountaineer and his reputation as a skilled, no-nonsense civil engineer would be the perfect skill-set to take charge of not only the Scott Base staff but to solve the complex logistic puzzle that is New Zealand's summer science programme. Sure enough, a few weeks later, Norman sat beside me to start his indoctrination into how some 300 people would meld together into a cohesive team. A friendship started here at my desk and carried on during that summer at Scott Base has endured and deepened over the years.</div>
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Norman David Hardie was born in Timaru on 28th December 1924, one of three sons and five daughters of George and Mabel Hardie. He was educated at Timaru Boys’ High School then at The University of Otago and The University of Canterbury, graduating with BE in Civil Engineering. His first job, in 1948, was with the Ministry of works at Lake Pukaki. In 1950 he moved to the Wellington Hydro office. By 1951 Norman was in London and for the next four years he worked for a consulting engineering company on structural and water scheme designs. While there, in 1951, Norman married University of Canterbury friend Enid Hurst, daughter of Colonel H.C Hurst.</div>
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After his first expedition to Nepal in 1954 Norman returned to Christchurch to work for EGS Powell as a consulting engineer. From 1958 to1963 Norman was a partner in Stock & Hardie consulting engineers, then Hardie & Anderson, structural engineering consultants (1963-83). Norman was a site engineer for Baigent’s timber mill (1984-85) before retiring to work as a private consultant working from homes in Halswell and Cashmere.</div>
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Norman was the Chairman of the Canterbury Branch of the Institution of Engineers (1969-71) and a Director of Farrier Waimak Ltd., (1971-84) Norman was made a Distinguished Fellow of the Institution of Professional Engineers.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>Norman Hardie ( centre)...with Geoff Harrow ( left) & Bill Beaven...members of the 1954 NZAC 'East of Everest' Himalayan expedition.</b></span></div>
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Norman’s mountain life started during the late 1930s as a government deer culler mainly in the Canterbury high country, work he continued during his years at university. On one hunting venture, after cycling from Timaru to Bealey, he shot four deer in the Waimakariri river basin. Tired out, he broke into Cora Lyn farmhouse to sleep the night, leaving a note about his actions upon leaving in the morning. Twenty four years later, he and Enid bought that house, owning it for 22 happy years.</div>
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During his final university years Norman’s interest in hunting led him to join the Canterbury University Tramping Club and this soon fostered a desire to take up mountaineering. Climbs at the head of the Rakaia followed in 1946, as did ventures into the Landsborough river catchment, a region that held a life-long fascination where he completed numerous new routes on peaks such as Mts Dechen, Strachan, Fettes and Elliot. During Norman’s time at university he fostered enduring friendships with climbers Jim McFarlane, Bill Beaven, Bill Packard and Earle Riddiford who all went on to join the New Zealand Alpine Club. As fresh graduates bound for employment at the end of the 1947 summer, Bill Beaven, Earle, Jim and Norman completed the first ascent of the still-rarely climbed South ridge of Sefton, approaching it from Fyfe Pass, the Landsborough and Harper’s Rock.</div>
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Based at Pukaki in 1948 as an engineer Norman was awakened one night by Bill Beaven to tell him he was needed to help rescue Ruth Adams who lay badly injured close to the summit of La Perouse. Adams had fallen during a climb with Ed Hillary and guides Mick Sullivan and Harry Ayres. Ruth's subsequent lower down the West Ridge of La Perouse and epic stretcher-carry down the Cook River to Fox has entered New Zealand mountain folklore, with Norman’s role being written up in his autobiography On my Own Two Feet (2006). Norman told me in recent years that he felt the rescue became a pivotal point in New Zealand mountaineering whereby amateur climbers like Ed Hillary who had always climbed with a guide saw what other amateur climbers were capable of; in turn, the amateurs learning much from the professionals. The bushmen who cut the track up the Cook river taught much also. Norman and his mates realised that the time was right for them to tackle bigger objectives, with luck overseas. As one, their dreams turned to climbing in the Himalaya.</div>
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<b>Photo left: Ed Cotter and Norm Hardie. These two great NZ mountaineers died a few weeks apart,</b><br />
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Engineering work and marriage in London followed, interspersed with climbs in the European Alps. While in England he befriended famous English climbers Eric Shipton, Bill Tilman, Charles Evans and John Hunt. Lacking Himalayan expedition experience, his application to join John Hunt’s 1953 Everest team was turned down. However, as a mountaineer based in London, he was asked by John Hunt to volunteer his time and expertise to co-facilitate the ground work for the 1953 Everest expedition that was sponsored by the Royal Geographical Society.</div>
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Norman finally got his break to climb in the Nepal Himalaya by sailing out to Bombay to join the 1954 New Zealand Alpine Club Barun valley expedition led by Ed Hillary. Some 20 new climbs were completed in what is now the Makalu-Barun National Park, including the 7000 metre plum Baruntse. I always envied Norman’s first ascent of Pethangtse, an elegant outlier of Lhotse that straddles the Nepal-Tibet border. He used the summit as a survey station as part of his expedition mapping programme. Charles Evans was invited on this highly mobile Kiwi trip, in part as repayment for New Zealanders being invited on British expeditions starting with Dan Bryant in 1935.</div>
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Norman’s friendship with Charles Evans deepened and this led to him being asked to be deputy leader of the 1955 British expedition to Kangchenjunga, the world’s third highest mountain. Norman helped to refine the oxygen equipment for this venture that was ostensibly a reconnaissance though it quickly turned into a full-blown assault on the summit. Joe Brown and George Band reached the summit first with Norman and Tony Streather summiting the following day; all four climbers avoided treading on the actual summit in deference to local beliefs. I always liked Norman’s tale from base camp of Evans asking him to take two of the climbers who eventually summited aside to teach them how to use crampons.<br />
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<b>Norm Hardie (left) talking to Bob McKerrow at the the talk Norm gave to celebrate the 60th anniversary of his ascent of Kanchenjunga.</b></div>
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After the Kangchenjunga climb Norman and some Sherpas set out to walk all the way to the Khumbu where he met Enid. This journey forms the basis of Norman’s first book In Highest Nepal (1957) that was later translated into German and Japanese. Following Norman’s participation in Ed Hillary’s 1960-61 Himalayan Scientific and Mountaineering (Silver hut) Expedition that wintered under Ama Dablam, the Khumbu became central to Norman’s life for several decades. In 1963 he developed and constructed an improved water supply from a spring above Khumjung village. He played a key role in the functioning of the Himalayan Trust, remaining on its board from 1966-88. During this period Norman and Enid made 14 visits to Nepal for school building, national park work and re-afforestation programmes. In 1986, sponsored by the New Zealand Government, Norman went to the Khumbu to report on the state of their forests and to make recommendations for their future care, which eventuated in the establishment of the Sagarmatha National Park.</div>
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Norman served for 21 years on various New Zealand Alpine Club committees and was NZAC President from 1973-75. He also served on the Arthur’s Pass National Park Board from 1967-79 and on the Craigieburn Forest Park Committee 1980-87, being Chairman for two years. He was a member of the Christchurch Civic Trust Board 1988-92 and The College House Board 1971-97. In 1992, Norman was awarded the Queen’s Service Order for services to mountaineering and conservation. He was an Honorary Life Member of The Alpine Club (UK) and The Himalayan Club and Life Member of the New Zealand Antarctic Society and the New Zealand Alpine Club.</div>
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Norman retained a deep interest in engineering and mountaineering throughout his life, attending and giving lectures and offering advice to younger climbers who found their way to his door. He helped innumerable authors get Nepalese facts straight as well as offering editorial advice to draft manuscripts and journal articles. Many of New Zealand’s top climbers owe a debt of gratitude to Norman’s mentoring and instruction during their formative years.</div>
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While living in a semi-rural property in Halswell, Norman and his ‘ Last of the summer wine’ enthusiasts bottled their own wine. It’s time to raise a glass to Norman Hardie, one of New Zealand’s outstanding mountaineers.<br />
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Memorial Service - College House - University Of Canterbury -100 Waimari Road - Friday 10th November....2pm Ice Axe Avenue led by Andrew and David Turton. All are invited to join in.</div>
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Norman David Hardie: Born; 28 December 1924 - Died 30 October 2017<br />
Norman is survived by his wife Enid and daughters Sarah Jane Hardie and Ruth Wells and grandchildren Henry, Tamar and Roslyn Wells and David Turton.</div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-61361501089689370032017-11-05T15:08:00.000-08:002017-11-05T15:08:28.860-08:00The lyrical life of Desmond Doig<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Editor, writer, painter, designer, photographer, expeditioner, conservationist, Renaissance man, and a Kathmandu everyman</h2>
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The flowers in the Shangrila Hotel garden in Lazimpat were newly planted, and the trees still small and immature. I sensed Desmond's arrival without turning in my chair – the air was charged with energy as he swept onto the lawn with a posse of acolytes and armfuls of architectural drawings. Desmond was never one to travel alone. “Hello, la. What a glorious day!” he called to me, before issuing instructions with much arm waving to those in his wake.<br />
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Although his name may no longer be a household word in Kathmandu and Kolkata - “Cal” as he called it - his lyrical influenceand ringing enthusiasm still reverberates. Desmond was an editor, writer, painter, designer, photographer, expeditioner and conservationist – a Renaissance man, although more accurately a Kathmandu everyman. After he retired here in the late 1970s, his passion for the Valley’s magic never failed to inspire us, and he delighted in its vibrant living artistry and people – the “ethnic mosaic” and “crucible of culture” to use his own words.<br />
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Born of Anglo Irish parents in India, Desmond studied in Kurseong, served with the Gurkhas in WWII, and made his name as a reporter with The Statesman. His weekly Artist’s Impressions series captured Calcutta’s fast-vanishing old buildings and monuments before they disappeared forever. As founding editor of The Junior Statesman, a cult youth magazine of yesteryear known as just JS, he hired a team of legendary journos including <a href="http://nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18556#.Wf" style="color: #006699; text-decoration-line: none;" target="blank">Jug Suraiya</a> and <a href="http://nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/In-memorium-of-Dubby-Bhagat,3180" style="color: #006699; text-decoration-line: none;" target="blank">Dubby Bhagat</a>. He was first to bring the world’s attention to an obscure Albanian nun named Mother Teresa, and with his friend Sir Edmund Hillary pursued a 1963 quest for the yeti in the high Himalaya.<br />
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Desmond’s sure taste and design style can still be enjoyed in the oasis gardens of the Malla and Shangrila hotels that he landscaped, and the original concept of the Shangrila Hotel reflects his legacy. His poetic watercolours and delicate drawings decorate the walls of many Kathmandu homes, including my own, presenting the verdant Valley that he loved so intensely and recalling altogether more innocent times. I also have the only known oil that Desmond ever painted, a portrait of me in 1980 adorned with enigmatic griffin imagery.<br />
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Once ensconced in the cosy, chaotic Panipokhari house opposite the then-American Embassy, Desmond’s myriad talents seemed to blossom in the sparkling air of his beloved “emerald valley”. Kakani and Tiger Tops were occasional escapes, but mainly Desmond was hard to extract from his home. His book titles show the whimsical nature of his attachment: Look Back in Wonder, <a href="http://nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/book-review-of-Down-History%E2%80%99s-Narrow-Lanes-andMy-Kind-of-Kathmandu,2413" style="color: #006699; text-decoration-line: none;" target="blank">In the Kingdom of the Gods, and My Kind of Kathmandu</a>, the volume that his best friend Dubby Bhagat faithfully produced to honour his memory, and which many moons ago they entrusted me with the grave responsibility of delivering the suitcase of original watercolours to his London publisher.<br />
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Desmond’s friendships ranged through Himalayan royalty to the most humble of artists and artisans. He was unfailing in his encouragement of the young and talented. Occasionally he would take time out to commentate a movie or help me with a special event. He persuaded his protégé Yeshe Tshering (now my brother-in-law) to be the Great Khan with Hollywood actor Michael York as Marco Polo for a rather dubious commercial. (“How did you get here, Marco Polo?” “In a way, Great Khan, that you can never imagine. On Cathay Pacific Airlines!”)<br />
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It was Desmond’s idea to arrange the first lamp-lit al fresco dinner in Bhaktapur’s Nyatapola Square to celebrate travel pioneer Lars-Eric Lindblad’s birthday.One of his best stories was taking a group of posh Brits on a sightseeing tour of Kathmandu. As the bus paused in the heart of Durbar Square, a fruity voice rang out disapprovingly from the back seat: “Awful lot of people hanging around doing nothing!”<br />
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Desmond’s eclectic dinners usually featured Burmese curries with coconut, peels of laughter, and conversation resounding with tales of historic Himalayan personalities – imitations of Sikkim queen Hope Cook’s voice were a speciality. He loved rural picnics and special occasions, and contributed the“From Ballet to Belly” cake at <a href="http://nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=10754#.WfrVGluCzIU" style="color: #006699; text-decoration-line: none;" target="blank">Boris Lisanevich</a>’s 75th birthday party. The then-British Ambassador was a particular favourite, memorable for his vague demeanour and fondness for gin-and-tonics, and for the lunch when he mistook a poached egg starter for “lovely fish”. Dubby and I were still laughing about “lovely fish” last time we met.</div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-89007762639766250452017-10-21T16:02:00.000-07:002017-11-05T15:30:19.227-08:00Ed Cotter has passed away.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I received the sad news today that Ed Cotter passed away. Ed will be remembered by many of us as an exceptionally good climber, the Father of Adventure Tourism, and a warm and supportive friend with an infectious sense of humour. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I remember climbing Mt. McFettrick with him in 1991, being his boss at Franz in 1991 and a friend ever since. My daughters loved him and often talk of Ed at </span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=733009014&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/anita.mckerrow?fref=mentions" style="background-color: white; color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration-line: none;">Anita Mckerrow</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">'s 21st, sleeping in our woodshed at Hokitika. You were an amazing man Ed. My condolences to the Cotter family. </span><br />
<i style="color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><b> All photographs taken by Bob McKerrow</b></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> R to L: Ed Cotter, John Nankervis, Chris Bonnington, Dave Bamford, Mike Browne and Colin Moneath.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> Ed Cotter left with Franz Josef mountain guide, Peter McCormack 1991.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> Ed Cotter cutting steps of the Fox Glacier.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> Author Lyn McKinnon, Ed Cotter and Naila McKerrow ay my house. Lyn wrote a book on Ed Cotter.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> Ed Cotter with his old climbing partner, George Low of Everest fame.</span><br />
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Ed Cotter centre, Mike Browne left with Chris Jillet right. On a climb of Mount McFettrick.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> Chris Bonnington left and Ed Cotter right at Chancellor Hit, Fox Glacier.</span><br />
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-31939866713353322542017-10-21T15:38:00.000-07:002017-10-21T15:38:27.251-07:00Writing a bad message when abandoning climbing friends.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This is one of the few notes I felt bad about writing. It is not good to abandon your mates who are out climbing. We were climbing in the remote Kohe Jalgye mountains of the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan, ;ictured below.<br />
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It was in June 1996 when the Talibans were closing in on Kabul and communities en route to the mountains, were very edgy towards us. Ross Evison and Mattias Luft set out to climb Kohe Jalgye but were late in returning to our high base camp. Bruce Watson and I who had climbed ano<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">ther peak the day before were waiting for them but had run out of food.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b> Mattias Luft and Ross Evison</b></span></div>
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8 June 96.<br />
Dear Ross and Mattias - With the good weather and limited food we have, we thought you would be back by now. Bruce and I have run out of food and had the last few raisins for lunch. As we don't know what has happened, we will descend to our last camp by the river. We have left all the gear you need plus first aid kit. We will buy a sheep from one of the local shepherds and kill it tonight. If you are not back by Midday tomorrow, we will come back up with a search party and a few legs of mutton. Hope to see you soon. Bob and Bruce.</div>
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Bruce and I got down to the river, found a shepherd willing to a sell a sheep, and butchered it. We put it on a spit and cooked it, but we were so hungry we ate it half raw, with fat dripping off our beards. We kept the best pieces for Mattias and Ross, and just before nightfall, we heard someone shouting. They had returned. We soon learnt they got to the summit and fell on the descent, and got knocked about. Four days later we were back in Kabul, drinking Russian Vodka, as the Talibans were bombing the hell out of the city.<br />
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8199830678971482883.post-49032301493951786632017-09-22T22:11:00.001-07:002017-09-22T22:11:28.572-07:00I don't want to eat grass or rotten fish. 2017 NZ elections.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Voting for me is not only exercising my democratic rights, but preventing people from eating rotten fish and grass.</div>
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As a boy I listened to my Grandfather and Grandmother, my Dad, my Mum and my Uncles discussing politics. My Grandfather kept families from starving in the 1913 waterfront strike which lasted from October 1913 to Jan 1914. Because he was a fisherman, he was able to cross the picket lines to go fishing, and then he would come back after dark with a large catch, and distribute it to the hungry families of the waterfront workers. My Dad and Uncle Bob talked about the PM in 1932, Joseph Cooates, telling the unemployed "to eat grass." Unemployed people broke shop windows in Auckland and in Dunedin, Wardell's Grocery Store had its windows broken and food looted. The unemployed got food handouts during the depression and Uncle Bob recalled queueing for half a day in the sun, to received a bag of rotten fish. He took it home and buried the fish under the apple tree which bore great fruit the following year. We had pictures of Michael Joseph Savage the first Labour PM hanging in most houses in my neighbourhood. Thet were exactly like the one below.<br />
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The gregarious but soft-spoken Savage personified Labour’s diluted socialism, or ‘applied Christianity’. As one historian said, Savage ‘smelt of the church bazaar, not at all of the barricades.’</div>
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Labour won the 1935 election convincingly. Helped by a recovering economy, it unleashed a slew of popular reforms. Three years later it won again, backed by voter support for its plans for a comprehensive social welfare system. Micky as we called him, brought in the unemployement benefit, a pension for all retirees and affordable housing for everyone.</div>
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I was brought up on these stories so when I had my first vote in 1969, I was a 21 year old working in Antarctica. In 1972 I voted in Aorakai Mount Cook, 1975 Geneva, 1978 during a Marxist revolution in Ethiopia, 1981 in India, 84,87,90 in NZ, 1993 in Afghanistan, 1996 in Kazakhstan, 1999 in Bangladesh, 2002 and2005 in India, 2008 in Indoneasia, 2011 in Sri Lanka and 2014 in the Philippines. I have risked life and limb to vote and I think democarcy is worth taking a risk for, as who want to eat grass or rotten fish?</div>
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Bob McKerrow - Wayfarerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13832128768908667724noreply@blogger.com2