Kā Roimata-o-Hine Hukatere (the frozen tears of Hine Hukatere) or Franz Joseph Glacier
Kā Roimata-o-Hine Hukatere (the frozen tears of Hine Hukatere), The legend tells of Hine Hukatere, a skilled mountaineer, and her lover Wawe (or Tuawe), who was less experienced. During a climb, Wawe fell to his death, and Hine Hukatere's grief-stricken tears were frozen by the gods, forming the glacier.
From its origins high in the Southern Alps, the Franz Josef Glacier (Kā Roimata-o-Hine Hukatere) descends into the lush native rainforest of Westland's National Park. This descent occurs from a height of 3,000m above sea level to 500m over a distance of 9km, making it one of the steepest glaciers in the country. It is also one of the fastest moving, sometimes up to 5 metres per day.
Before we climbed her, we stayed in a funny little townlet a bit like a ski resort. There were many glacier guides wandering around: young, fit, sporty, good looking. I felt lucky to stay with one of them, a friend of a friend: “Amazon Cat” as it said on her ice pick. And she was that, her name was Cat, and she was impressively Amazonian: tall, tanned, blond haired and broad shouldered, self assured, warrior like. My 25 year old self was rather daunted by her even though, or perhaps even more so because, she was only 20.
Little did I know when I first met her how much I would lean into these Amazonian qualities, how much I would need them over the next few days, and how much the experience she shared with us would stay with me forever.
I had written about glaciers in my A level geography and it had never occurred to me how incredibly beautiful and unique they are. What a shame that our education system does not think to incorporate such life affirming detail! The flat plains at the front of the glacier look like unfinished marble surfaces: rough and off white streaked with browns of all hues. Crevasses running down their length. The further up you go the more spectacular the marble creation becomes: sculpture upon sculpture of ice, round tunnels where rocks have been churned and turned around as this mighty mass of ice creeps forwards. Bridges, deep valleys, mountains, foothills, crags, turrets, pinnacles. And more colours of ice than I had ever previously imagined: clear ice you can see through to the bubbles suspended in time, swimming pool blue ice with pure white vertical waves, dirty ice laced with debris and grey slate shards. I have a photo of me, ice pick in hand, hat, gloves, boots, crampons, laughing in a chamber of clear blue ice. That blue is like no other on this earth: pure, clear, heavenly.
As I listened to the ring of Cat's ice pick wielded with such dexterity, sliding her hands down to the base with a downward stroke into the ice, sending armies of tiny ice cubes fleeing. An explosion who's aftermath sounds like a brief hailstorm. I learnt to trust in the 100 spikes on my crampons that felt so unsteady and untrustworthy at first. Especially knowing that ice can cut like glass, that a slight slip of the foot could cause severe injury or in some places death.
Cat's overwhelming confidence for her mere 20 years in the world seemed to shrink my own. But her perception and care surprised me and left me deeply grateful. Bleeding heavily and already tired from travelling and completely at sea in an absolutely otherworldly environment I was fragile.
On day 2 we climbed along incredibly beautiful twisty turny layered rocks, coloured green, browny gold, silver, struggling all the time for stable foot holds then up and over the glacier, down a crevasse on the other side, then up a steep hill helped by small trees and vegetation now to hold our tired feet. At the end of the day, nearing our hut for the night, my moon blood came and I was close to tears. I could not look Cat or my friend Josephine in the eye let alone find the strength to ask for help. In her patient way, with calm, enduring cheerfulness, Cat asked me about my favourite things. I loved her for that. I loved her for respecting me hiding my struggle and finding a way to help me that didn't expose me.
I loved her for that because she did not know me and she found a way to honour my feelings better than my own mother. That was poignant.
We spent that night in an old wooden hideaway of my childhood dreams. It began to rain and in the morning we waited for the rain to stop. It didn't, so we left around midday, only to be met by a raging torrent which had been a benign stream the day before.
We knew the drop down the steep waterfall below would most probably be fatal. I felt calm and trusting and at the same time more aware of possible imminent danger to my life than I ever had before. Cat decided it would be foolish to try and cross, at least with us two in tow. We returned up the steep hill back towards our haven. It seemed an endless journey battling against the rain, the wind driving cold wet in our faces. We arrived soaked through. I began to cry, ashamed and exhausted. They went out to look at the glacier from a different point of view. I sat and somehow found a thread of belonging to the wider web of life, to the rain. A glimpse of the golden thread of my life saving me in a moment of crisis.
It has taken me some 20 years since then to appreciate the drain my menstrual cycle can be. I bleed more heavily than most women and the consequent anaemia leaves me exhausted in a way few understand. I now offer my younger self some understanding she needed then.
In that moment, when the others came back, I did what I had learnt on my travels and at my school. I made do with very little. I had no sanitary towels and my sleeping bag was wet. Without the need for emotional conversation which was beyond us young uninitiated women at that point, we found all the dry things we could, we huddled together on a mattress on the floor and kept warm.
We found a crappy novel, a few trivial pursuits cards, some rice, some soup powder and some custard, we tried to radio through to the other huts and guides and see if we could get the code for the padlock on the store cupboard to no avail. Josephine fantasised about what was inside, about breaking the lock and finding a bottle of wine and some cigarettes. That kept us entertained for a while. Those young women were brilliant at keeping things light when I felt like sinking into the dark and damp of my own menstrual blood.
The next day we began to make it down the glacier amongst mist and drizzle. My feet were unsteady as if over 36 hours they had forgotten how to walk. The sun popped out for a moment and the sun sparkling on her incredible white skirt made up for everything. I offered the sacrifice of a day of my life and much menstrual blood as a thanks for such beauty.
We drank the delicious fresh glacial waters and laughed about our night in the hut. I spotted turrets of crystals sparkling within a huge rock. Looking closer we found a crack filled with them. Cat chipped away and managed to dislodge a few: some permanent blocks of ice for her windowsill at home, lines and edges and waves of crystals.
After that we still had a way to go. We only had a little chocolate left to eat. I was swaying weakly. I kept hearing avalanches in the distance and every step I took seemed to end in a slip. Weeping I summoned all my little remaining strength to go back over the glacier. A slip too close to an edge of no return Cat's strong arms grabbed my hand, “Don't do that to me now”, she said.
Finally ice steps down the other side. A view down river of the vast vertical cliffs and a raging muddy flow from the foot of the glacier. A backward glance to the sun shining on our little hut. I gave up using my legs, sat on my waterproof trousers and slid down.
Watching rich red blood on white white ice, feeling its hot stickyness run down my tired legs surrounded by the cool of the glacier is a striking sensual memory. It comes to me when I slip into the river in summer or touch the ice in winter. when I am bleeding heavily and hear the sound of quenching hot iron.