Mountain Journal

Mt Howitt, in the Victorian high country,  is a wonderful destination at any time of the year. The easiest way in, of course, is the lovely trail from the Howitt Plains. The hardest direct approach is up the west spur from the Howqua River. In winter the options are more complex and way more committing. While you look across the Howqua valley to the metropolis that is the ski resort at Mt Buller, the ridges from The Bluff to the Howitt plateau feel wonderfully remote, and the A frame hut at Macalister Springs can feel like you’re at the heart of the Victorian high country. Weather, route finding and snow conditions can be variable and difficult. Heading to ‘Mac Springs’ in winter remains a classic hard trip for anyone who is committed to backcountry touring.

This winter, three friends, Hunter Williams, Oliver Huzzey, and Rainer Cook Tonkin, made the trip in to Howitt on old gear bought second hand on marketplace and with homemade ski crampons. In true backcountry tradition, it pushed them out of their comfort zones, providing a mix of misery, hard slog and elation.

Spag-Bol and Snow gums

Taungurung country, sovereignty was never ceded.

By Hunter, Oli and Rainer.

From home comforts, heated loungerooms and flushing toilet-bowls within inner city abodes, we plotted our journey. Three days snow, two of shine, the magical window for a five day trek atop Alpine touring skis. Making regular phone consultations with our Alpine Guru, Cam. The trip would be carved from Refrigerator gap in the Howqua hills, through towering mountain ash and twisting snow gums to the architectural Vallejo Gantner hut, nestled beneath the plateaus of Mount Howitt.

As only our second backcountry adventure, the first being just a stones throw from one of the Vail empire’s alpine metropolis (Hotham) — we fancied ourselves an elite 21st century posse in the image of the cattle drovers from the region’s dodgy past. Where, in the mid 1800’s local drovers were offered leases of Crown land for pennies and up until 2005 cattle were free to graze the high country. This has resulted in widespread damage to the delicate ecology of the region; however, in recent years the high country has been protected by the legal status of ‘State’ and ‘National’ park.

Our gear was as cheap as a back country set up might get. Old canvas backpacks sourced from op shops each bursting at the seams with various gimmicks. An ultralight ice saw past its prime purpose lost on us (regretfully broken at first blow, in hindsight not ideal for firewood). To make things worse, our three ginormous brains had left us two headtorches light and our emergency shelter would be a two-person tent and a small body-bag-type bivvy. Despite knowing it would get us by, albeit through a little discomfort, the solace of the Alpine huts were high priority. To top it all off, two of us were in downhill ski boots with frame bindings and all of us on ski’s purchased from facebook marketplace. Each night our raw ankles and shins had little consolation, having forgotten blister patches in the first aid kit. Homemade ski crampons were perhaps the most proud addition to our quiver; utilising metal-head screws, galvanized steel plates and grunt straps. If we were ever to encounter icy conditions, we would ratchet the bootleg crampons onto the soles of our skis and march on our merry way.

Taking leave from our pen pushing and tram crammed commutes across  Naarm/Melbourne, we put gas to pedal and found ourselves among the River Reds in the valley by the Howqua river, Taungurung country. In the morning we drove the winding road upstream, unsure if a rockslide or fallen tree would butt this dream out before it had started. Through some good fortune we lucked out on the way up. Though our excitement (infused with a touch of naive eagerness) masked the same concerns for our decent five days from then.

Deeper and deeper into the Alpine Ash-laden forests we drove, the Howqua a quiet murmur below as the ground slowly became dusted with snow.

With frozen fingers we stopped to put chains on the old faithful Subie-Outback at Eight-Mile gap. Sometime later we arrived at the 4WD track up to Bluff hut. Luck was on our side, as despite a thin and patchy layer of snow we were able to begin skiing straight from the car. Lightly snowing, we made it to Bluff hut with relative ease around 1pm. Onwards we skied to Lovicks Hut, happily squealing through the dry snow down the track’s ultimate hill. Nestled among a Woolybutt forest, Lovick’s offered special refuge as we indulged in a large fire, even melting snow for footbaths in the old Drover’s hut.

The following day we awoke at first light, expecting the crossing to Howitt would be arduous, but not quite knowing how arduous. At around eight-thirty we left Lovicks — shooting along the 4wd tracks with ease, our spirits running high. Visibility now stood at two hundred meters, with a light misty rain which had been falling since dawn. Some confusion and multiple GPS checks later, we turned off the 4WD onto the Australian Alps Walking Track. It was our first taste for technical-walking-track skiing and the mountains did not forget to enlighten us. Everyone took several falls down the first steep spur. A particular ejection saw an anonymous party member’s skis choose different routes either side of a small Snow gum. After slow progress towards Mt Magdala, we opted to boot-pack the final 100 metres. We had a serious discussion about attempting the traverse, knowing that we had only just begun the technical section of our day.

Though we resolved to press onward, the prospect of turning back remained; frequently discussing energy levels, pace of progress and track exposure.

Tiptoeing the ridge with its foggy cliff edge was a particular joy after the preceding day of flattish 4WD tracks. At the southern base of Magdala we attempted our first break — lunch. Barely 2 minutes sitting down and we had begun to freeze, the incessant rain, although light, had soaked us to the bone. Cramming as much salami, cheese and vita-wheats as we could down our throats, we moved on.

The northern traverse of Mt Magdala was to be the most technical skiing of the day, pushing our backcountry expertise to the limit. Cutting tracks with steep rocky cliff faces above and below, our usually cheery chatter was silenced. All concentration placed upon not finding our fate off the steep cliffs that disappeared to our left, down the mountain.

The lack of visibility, and our inability to discern the tracks usual cutting beneath the carpet of snow remained the main spanner in our progress, and we were averaging a-little-over one kilometre per hour. As we rounded the backside of Mt Magdala the path disappeared beneath our feet. A couple of elementary classes of orienteering encouraged us to believe that we were still running true, as our track towards the next peak lay shrouded in fog and mist. We were mistaken. After an hour of deliberation, backtracking and bush-bashing, we made it back to the saddle that we had lost. This costly detour had depleted our energy reserves and we began to ponder the reality of the three of us spending an absurdly cosy night in the two-man tent, defeated and sopping. That idea was enough to wrangle our determination to push on. From then on, we became meticulous, stopping regularly and readjusting to the trusty iphone GPS, knowing getting lost again would put an end to our traverse attempt.

We trenched on through wet snow-covered shrubby eucalypts around Big Hill, enchanted by the fog which had now thickened to a measly twenty meters of visibility. Having arrived in the Alps after one of the season’s huge storms, the snow gums leading up the final spur to Mt Howitt were plastered in metre long slabs of horizontal ice. They were a breathtaking and spine-chilling sight, testament to the ferocious winds that whip through the land, like great skeletons trapped by Medusa’s stare. As we approached the top, the dense snaking snow gum forest began to thin, and we spotted our first mammal of the trip — a rabbit. Once again the invasive colonial legacy in the Alps became apparent before our eyes. Despite the rabbits invasive status, we were none-the-less impressed that any living being could survive in such hostile conditions.

As we reached the summit the visibility reduced to ten metres and the wind became scarily strong. Rainer and Oli, now after 8 hours of unrepenting rain and with only drenched thermal layers under their shells, began to lose momentum with cold. Despite the sensation, the exposure was too intense to stop and layer up then and there. The snow beneath us had crystallized to a field of tiny marbles and great effort was needed to plant skis, as the skins became dysfunctional. Hunter took the reins and with frozen hands glued to the phone, we inched along the plateau sticking to the GPS’s route. Not knowing how steep the cliff faces were to either side; deliriously we skied off the summit and down the ridge (praying it was the right one) to take us to the refuge of the hut.

As dark encroached we arrived at a gurgling brook, later learning to be Macalister Springs. A short ski further on, with the Spring’s song calming our earlier nerves, there it was — Vallejo Gantner Hut. We hooted and harrahed into the cool winter’s night as the magnificent, almost surreal A frame came into sight, tucked in amongst the gums under a hefty blanket of snow. Still shaking we clambered inside, tearing off wet garments, wrapping ourselves in sleeping bags and setting about to light the fire. Later on, gathered around the blaze sipping on whisky and tucking into our third straight dinner of Rainer’s famous dehydrated Spag-bog, we recounted the day’s events, three exhausted boys beaming with pride.

The following day, as we rested in the hut with fire roaring (a big thanks to the legends who stocked it for the winter), we felt very accomplished. Our ego’s had climbed and we basked in the epic survival of a difficult day in the mountains. Exploring through the many treasures of the hut, we discovered an old copy of the Mountain Journal containing the story of Huw Kingston. Huw, an alpine adventurer who solo-winter traversed the whole AAWT at 59, reading his story quickly humbled our inflated ego’s.

We spent the overtly windy, snowy day enjoying the remoteness of Macalister Springs, a two-day-ski-for-the-mortal from civilisation. Now without packs we felt unstoppable. Despite talks of “taking it easy” to avoid injury, we skied about the hills that ran up from the hut, even building a jump. Our usual snow antics staking claim. In the mid afternoon, having colonised the hut with our gear, not-to-mention walking around all day in jocks, two more brave souls came through the door of the hut. To our great surprise, us being the second visitors of the hut for the winter season, and them-the-third (according to the logbook), our sprawl indicated our disbelief that anyone else would have made the trip out. Jokingly they suggested it looked like there were at least eight people staying, Mike and Rich restored some of our pride by complimenting the tracks that we had cut the day prior under such extreme conditions. This pride only to be re-levelled once they told us they were off to climb the Cross Cut Saw the next day, premier technical Winter Alpine terrain in the high country. Once more crowded by the fire, now with our new companions, we shared stories and laughs of past adventures and aspirations for those to come.

By the next morning the clouds had parted, our mouths hung open as we gazed across the gullies to the golden glowing peaks of Mt Howitt and the Crosscut Saw. We packed our bags, and began our trek back (earlier this time). This being the first clear day, we were blown away by the vistas, coming up the ridge from Macalister Springs. Looking across to the Bogong High Plains to the north-east, and the immediacy of the ever-impressive Crosscut Saw to the north-west, we fumbled for words and reverted to babyish ‘aahs’ and ‘aaws’. After skiing a quick line off the back of Howitt we rocked on, heads spinning with the three-sixty degrees views, tripping on the stark difference of the day that had brought us there. With the snow melting, we opted for the summit crossing of Mt Magdala instead of the northern traverse, which we feared may have suffered from the impressive rays that had already begun clearing the icy gums. We peeked through Hell’s Window, an iconic alpine portrait framed by impressive cliff faces either side. Had it not been for our strict agenda, we seriously considered doing quadruple backflips, straight into the chute. Basking in the sun at the peak of Mt Magdala for our keenly anticipated lunch, the usual works of salami, cheese and vita-wheats, we re-engaged with the outside world. Oli received a beautiful message from his dad, reminiscing on fond memories of his own youth of blue bird cross-country ski days with good company, something magical.  Navigating down the still icy, south-western face, we sketchily hung on and re-entered the tree line.  Layers off, T-shirts on, we skied down among thickened bush, zig-zagging and bunny-hopping, yelping with kiddish joy. It was an all-time day. At the base of the spur we cast off our shirts and soaked in the sun, our minds drifting once more to the days past. The ice had all melted from the snow gums and their trunks glistened a plethora of colours as we skipped on towards the 4wd track. We arrived at Lovicks Hut an hour later, completely exhausted. The thought of a shower and warm beds of the following day made this, being the coldest night, hard to bear.

After a short sleep in, we downed the usual breakfast of aeropress coffee and nut-date porridge then pushed on towards the car. Our incredible trip had left a lasting effect on the three of us. Words now few and far between as we weaved back over Mt Lovick and down to Bluff Hut. Here our days bad-luck lay before us, as the track we’d skied directly from the car had cast off its coat and we had no choice but to strap skis onto packs, hiking the final descent.

Writing now, we are not sure if there are many better feelings than being in the snow-capped mountains in good company. Through all our trials, spats and mishaps we have nothing but the fondest memories of this, our first true foray into Alpine touring. While we had some great skiing conditions, a trip of this kind is under an ever-growing threat of accelerated climate change. Having newly fallen in love with the Vic-backcountry, knowing that the Victorian Alps are already a relatively warm, low lying alpine snow environment, climate change looms as one of the biggest threat to future adventures, and the alpine environment at large. For us there are no past images to reflect upon but the future is worrisome, in a country already thin of skiable slopes, with the seasons shortening and the snow line receding, what will be left when we are gone? Sure there’s always Hakuba, Aspen or ritzy Val d’Isere but those of us that have seen it know, it’s not quite as special as what we have on our doorstep. As resorts grossly hike up prices and the elitists turn up their noses to the day trippers, we will ski on. The Australian Alps are a right of everyone from near or far to wander through, learn from and heal in their beauty.

ALWAYS WAS ALWAYS WILL BE!

You can find the Mt Howitt/ Bluff winter touring guide here.

You can get in touch with Hunter, Oli and Rainer via Oliverhuzzey7@gmail.com