“Susan” in Snowland Flying By Ski-Plane In Southern Alps

Press, Volume XCVIII, Issue 28987, 31 August 1959, Page 2

“Susan” in Snowland Flying By Ski-Plane In Southern Alps

In Canada we once took a taxi to the top of a mountain and skied down it. In Switzerland we hopped on a train and spiralled up through the granite heart of a mountain to ski down from the saddle.

In Australia we swung high in a little cage over house-tops and tree-tops to ski down an alpine highway that had been closed to wheeled traffic by snow and ice. And on Ruapehu we have three magnificent chairlifts, of which, when they are working, we are inordinately proud.

But for up-ski novelty and sheer out-of-this-world adventure, Mt. Cook surpasses them all. For at Mount Cook you jump into an aeroplane, fly away up to the head of the glacier, clamber out into the snow and ski down. At the bottom of your run, which in favourable conditions can be up to 16 miles long, the aeroplane picks you up again and flies you back to the strip,- where a car is waiting to whisk you back to the Hermitage.

But do not think for a moment that I am going to let you off as lightly as that. In fact you may as well take a deep breath and hang on to your hat, because you are going to come along every step of the way. Flight-Seeing Tour

When a perfect blue and white day dawned for our ski-flight, excitement took my appetite away, but I had two eggs for breakfast on the principle that anything can happen on a mountain. Once I had one egg for breakfast and did not get another meal for four days, but that is another ’ mountain story. So we drove the four miles to the airstrip and there found our fine pilot, John Evans, fastening the skis on to the wheels of his little Auster. We in turn tied our skies to the wing-struts, climbed into the cockpit with him, and away we went, skimming along the snow-white strip and heading up to the Tasman Glacier. Alone, John can fly straight up the glacier. With our added weight, he had to zig-zag to gain the same height and these welcome diversions enabled us 'to swing to and fro on a glorious flight-seeing, peak-spotting expedition between the Mount Cook and Malte Brun Ranges. We poked our very noses into the Ball Glacier on our left, the Murchison on our right, the Hochstetter with its stupendous icefail on the left again. He hobnobbed, as we fluttered past, with the majestic triple crown of Cook, with such ’exquisite summits as Silberhom and Tasman, with such noble peakA as Dampier, , Haast. Hatdinger,' de laißeche. the Minareis, Elie de Beaumqnti and blrck-browed Malte Bruh itself, to name only a few of the biants in our path. Clearly distinguishable in our flight were at least 23 separate peaks higher than Ruapehu, all linked up in one mighty main divide, with the saddles and passes not falling below 7000 feet. Overseas Interest These immense panoramic vistas of snow, ice and rock, as far as the roving eye can see in every direction under the heavenly canopy of unblinking blue, have become our finest overseas tourist advertisement, as depicted in "Cinerama” and in the superb New Zealand-made movie-poem which I have seen five times and could gladly see 50 times, “The Snows of Aorangi.” Scores of American and Australian visitors flock to the Hermitage especially to do “the Cinerama flight.” How strange if New Zealanders, too, need an American film to tell them how breathtakingly beautiful and exciting their own small country is. To have seen all this from the air with my own eyes has been one of the unforgettable experiences of my life. If you do not wish to ski, you can land and walk about on the glacier before taking off for home again. If you do not wish to land, why then John Evans will fly you round a few more peaks, over the top to have a look at Fox and Franz Josef on the West Coast perhaps, or anywhere your fancy takes you.

But we were mad-keen to ski down the glacier and got a tremendous thrill from the landing itself, for to cushion down with a puff . . . fluff . . . flurry ... on to two feet of new powder snow was the nearest thing to stepping out on to a pearly cloud, as one .often wants to do when flying high above them in an airliner. Our Blood Tingled

It was sunny and warm on the glacier. Our blood tingled with the excitement of so rare and remote an adventure, as well as with the unfiltered heat of the sun and the exhilarating exercise of ski-ing. And ski we did, not 16 miles to be sure, for unpacked powder snow so early in the season is fun

rather than fast, but far enough to chalk up some of the most fantastic ski-ing in our memory.

But the winter sun soon leaves the glacier, the shadows peep, then creep, then gallop across the fast-freezing valleys, and we knew we must not linger longer than the sunshine.

So we piled again into the little Auster. But the mortifying fact was that the Grahams, waxing fat on too much lavish South Island hospitality, were more than the Auster was prepared to lift all at once off a soft and sticky snowfield.

It sped down the smooth rolling miles of the glacier in fine style, snowy spume shooting high behind its skis. But it did not have the slightest intention of taking off. Not with those hefty Grahams aboard. Not both of them. Get Out and Push

When the broken green ice of the lower glacier began to loom up in our path, the pilot thought we had better stop. "I am afraid,” he said with a grin, “that I shall have to ask you to get out and push.” Never say life holds nothing new.

Out we climbed, turned the aeroplane round and gave it a push to get it started up the glacier for another go. John did a solo take-off to show how easy it was. Then the Auster decided it could manage me as well, and up we went without a moment’s pause.

I must say my man, for all his six feet two and 14 stone, looked very small as we left him alone up there on the, white waste of the glacier. But I did not fret, for he is a mountain man himself —and does not often get an hour of such peace and quiet! At best John would fly straight back and get him after dropping me. At worst, if the aircraft could not land again in the deepening shadow, our castaway would ski down to the foot of the glacier and climb up over its terminal, and lateral moraines to the Ball Hut, probably by nightfall. But all went equally well when John went back for him and now I suppose we shall dispute to our dying day which one of us was the last straw that stuck the Auster in the snow.

Harry Wigley, who pioneered this fabulous ski-skyway, has just received the green light from the Government to expand the service and has a fast and powerful new aircraft lined up, with special skis to cope with all conditions.

So I do not suppose anyone will ever have the fun of getting stuck again. But that tough little Auster will always seem like a personality rather than a machine to me. and I would not trade its memory for a ride in Apollo’s chariot itself.