Cold, Windy and Heading Down: A Bivvy Attempt Cut Short
Words & images by Maki | @makioutdoors
I thoroughly planned my first snow bivvy, and believing I had nailed the planning stage, then ended up walking down the mountain in the dark.
The white, cold snow surrounded me as I traced someone else’s steps on the Summit Plateau of Mount Ruapehu. It was time to set up camp, as the sun was slowly starting to get low. As I took the green Orson bivvy out of its bag, a cheeky wind gust almost blew it out of my hands. I insisted on setting up camp a bit longer but, not daring to walk around too much for fear of breaking a weak snow bridge over some invisible sinkhole below me, I eventually decided to get off the crater and find a better place to set up camp on the mountain’s slopes.
It was only April, but a huge off-season snow dump had turned the mountain into a winter wonderland a few days before my planned trip. My partner had a rock-climbing course to attend in Whakapapa, and I joined the trip, excited to have my first overnight solo wild camping experience at the top of Ruapehu. It proved to be a bit far-fetched.
I asked around in Facebook groups, looked for videos showing how to bivvy and had all my gear with me. I knew my sleeping bag was a bit cold for the plan, sitting at a -3 limit, but I had a thick liner and all my warm clothes and thought I would be able to pull it off. From other mountaineers’ observations a few days before, I knew there were active sinkholes at the top of Ruapehu. The heavy snow would have covered them but would not have solidified by now, so that knowledge sat at the back of my mind.
As I walked out of Iwikau village and waited to jump on the gondola with my 16kg backpack, one of the other lodge guests casually asked, “Do you have your shovel?” There wasn’t any reason to be worried about avalanches, so I wasn’t carrying my avalanche gear. I answered no and quickly forgot the comment.
After a tough uphill with my heavy backpack, and meeting a few cool people along the way, I made it to the top. Some people had stopped at the rim as they didn’t have crampons to continue to the top. I had been wearing mine since I got to the snow line, so I left the pack behind and traced the slightly icy ridge to the dome for my first ever look at the Crater Lake. It was a view that had escaped me on a few earlier attempts, when I had to bail for different reasons. I almost cried in awe and marvelled at the yellow sulphur streaks on the lake. I was alone at the summit and could see a group of three guys who I had met earlier walking across the summit plateau below, making their way to camp by the lake.
The most beautiful view of the Crater Lake - at least according to me.
I decided to come down, pick up my bag and find the best notch where to access the Plateau easily. Before I entered the plateau, I sat down to grab a sandwich and recover a bit of fuel after the long uphill slog. While refueling I contemplated the white tops around me, incredibly happy to be up there, and so proud of myself to have come by myself. I was excited and anxious about the night ahead.
I made my way into the Summit Plateau, following a crampons trail that zig-zagged down from the notch. My fears started to creep into the foreground of my mind as I saw the untouched snow at either side of the ‘trail’. I walked for a bit, noticing some loose snowballs rolling down from the rim. I knew there wasn’t enough snow, but that still triggered some alarms, as my imagination ran wild, but I was logically more concerned about sinking down into a covered hole than an avalanche.
The Summit Plateau and three mountaineers waking through.
I decided to set up camp near the trail, beside a rock that looked safe. But then the wind started picking up, and I didn't dare walk around much by myself with no one to help me out of a potential sinkhole. I quickly realised I had to abandon my idea of sleeping on the plateau. The chances of that actually happening were fantastically slim, but when fear creeps up on you, sometimes the best thing to do is step down. Being up there alone was challenge enough, without adding the challenge of walking on a sort of glacier by myself.
I later learned that someone had a beautiful night up there in a bivvy, and I remember feeling sad that I wasn't brave enough to explore and find a more repaired place. But I know myself, and I wouldn't have had a good time. I would have been scared of every step into the unbroken snow.
As I came down the mountain with the setting sun, the wind appeared to stop (key word here: appeared). The view from that point was fantastic, overlooking Ngauruhoe, and I imagined waking up to the sunrise views. I made up my mind: this was a good enough place. I set up my bivvy, melted snow to prepare my dinner and then to fill a hot water bottle to make falling asleep nicer, and was ready for bed. The wind had shown up again, but I was ready to jump into bed, and I did.
I was expecting to wake up with the sun rising behind Ngauruhoe - dreamy, right?
Probably an hour passed in there, and I was colder by the second. The wind wasn't strong but it was constant, and the light sleeping bag wasn't doing me any favours. I had also failed to pack warmer trousers, and despite the warm water bottle I could feel the heat leaving my little green cocoon with every gust. My mind started running a bit wild, and no breathing technique could stop my anxiety from growing. The comment about the shovel came back to me at some point, and I mentally kicked myself. I could have dug wind protection around my site!
My bivvy looking all excited to spend its first night in snow…
Good or bad, I had signal and was chatting to my partner, who was about to head to bed in the warm lodge below. He offered to come up and meet me at Ruapehu Hut if I wanted to come down. I think the opportunity to be vulnerable and tell him I was scared actually broke me. Sometimes no signal helps with commitment. Sometimes signal helps you feel safer. In this case, signal helped me recognise that I was scared, cold and anxious, and that I was pushing it. On the other hand, maybe if I had had no signal, I would have decided to endure. Who knows?
In a split second my mind was undone, and between tears of frustration and the calm of knowing I was getting out of the cold and a very likely horrible night ahead, I packed up and started down the mountain. It was already dark, and I was glad I had my torch and a full set of batteries. The white snow reflected the light, which made it easy to navigate down. I could see a headlight coming up. It was my partner coming to meet me, and we even sent each other light signals, which made me laugh. The drop in temperature had hardened the snow, which crunched under my crampons but made for easy footing. It had been a long day, but I had renewed energy and made my way down to Ruapehu Hut in good time, just as my partner's light shone over the Delta Ridge.
I immediately felt guilty. Even though he had offered, it was my fault he was up here at 10 o'clock at night, and we still had about two hours to go as we made our way down the ski field (which we thought would be faster than the Ruapehu Hut access, but it wasn't). The adrenaline started to wear off once I felt 'safe', and tiredness came over me. We walked into the lodge just around midnight and went straight to bed.
The following day I stayed in the lodge, resting up and reliving the previous day. I made a mental note never to leave my shovel behind, and even decided to create a little video one day on how to set up a snow bivvy, once I had worked it out. I hadn't found any videos on the subject in my research. I also realised that the sleeping bag would be crucial, and that no hot water bottle could replace it.
Munching on my feelings of frustration and the mix of happiness and guilt, I decided to make this one a victory. I pushed as far as I could, then decided to come down, which I did safely, taking in many lessons, some immediately and others with the passing of time.
This whole experience added to my skillset in many ways and helped me see where I was falling short and what to work on. It definitely gave me a few very important lessons which will stay with me, particularly around my own resistance to the cold and how far I can push myself when I'm alone.
I aim to treat every outdoor experience as a lesson, and this one brought many. I can't wait to get out there again, shovel packed, and make it work!
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