“You’re crazy, an idiot!”

“You’ll bloody get yourself killed…..”

Just a couple of choice remarks that have been thrown my way by friends and family when I tell them I have spent the majority of the last year climbing by myself. It seems to be a common perception that climbing solo in the mountains is only one step down the stupidity ladder from deliberately jumping in front of a bus, or licking the steel safety rail of a ski field chairlift on an icy morning, just to see if your tongue will actually stick. I find this perception to be especially prevalent among those who don’t actually climb, and I believe this is largely due to a lack of understanding of the dynamics of climbing and the mountains in general. Thankfully, the response from other climbers, although mixed, has mostly been more positive and encouraging.

Personally I have to disagree with the above generalized and often uninformed perceptions. I believe that solo climbing – like all climbing or any other alpine sport for that matter – can, for the most part, be as safe or as dangerous as you choose to make it. Admittedly there are aspects of climbing that you have little or no control over – such as the weather, whether a snow bridge over a crevasse will take your weight, or why that once solid-looking hold suddenly broke when you weighted it. However, for the majority of climbing situations, the level of danger faced is quite literally in the hands of the climber, and how potentially hazardous it becomes is largely dependent on the level of risk the climber is prepared to accept. More than anything, you make a judgement when you commit to a climb and you continue to make these calls throughout the climb. As I see it, it is all about efficiently mitigating and managing the risks we are presented with in the mountains.

I recall chatting to an older climber when I first began climbing and being told that there are only two types of climbers, “old climbers and bold climbers”; that often the bravest decision you make in the mountains is the one to turn around and back off a climb; and above all, to always remember that the mountain will still be there next time. Over the last few years I have thought about this and the more I climb, the more I realise how true these sentiments are. As climbers, we grow and develop our skills by pushing at the boundaries and extending ourselves beyond our comfort zones. Therein lies the thrill of climbing but this doesn’t mean not knowing the limits of those boundaries, and it is important to realise that there is no shame in backing off if it does not feel right or if the reward does not justify the risk involved in obtaining it.

The above is true for all climbing and I am under no illusion that soloing does not carry an additional element of risk compared with climbing with a partner. There is no one to go for help if you slip and break a leg or are knocked unconscious, no one at the end of the rope if you are knocked off the mountain by falling rock or ice. Glacier travel in particular can become a very nerve-wracking experience. Yet soloing does have its benefits and there are measures you can take to increase your safety such as taking a personal locator beacon, and protecting yourself on a difficult pitch by rope soloing.

Soloing mixed ground on the West Face of the Remarkables.

For me, the greatest aspect of climbing solo is not the feeling of self-fulfilment at having climbed something difficult on my own, but simply the fact that I can enjoy my own freedom and the seclusion of being out in the hills by myself. I feel it enhances the satisfaction gained from climbing and being out in the mountains in general – it has the effect of heightening the thrills and emotions experienced. While admittedly the rush of topping out alone, knowing that you have achieved the summit solely under your own power, is rewarding, it is the quiet moments that I value the most. Being able to get into the mountains by myself, to lap up the solitude and know that there is no one else around to detract from the moment. Stopping whenever you want to take in the view of that picture-perfect sunrise when high on a mountain at dawn; or just sitting there, collecting your thoughts as you watch the clouds roll by, lost in the absolute silence that can only be enjoyed above the snow line.

I also enjoy the independence and flexibility that climbing solo allows for. Being able to travel light and fast has enabled me to get into the hills on short notice whenever I have wanted to. Because I am fortunate enough to be based in Queenstown, I can make a spur-of-the-moment decision to go climbing and be tackling a mixed or ice line on the Remarkables in little over an hour. There is no reliance on others, no last minute call from a partner on the Friday evening before a trip to say that they cannot come climbing for the weekend. Furthermore, climbing solo has also allowed me to target the routes that I want to climb, and to quickly develop my skills and confidence. This growth in confidence has in turn lead to a desire to attempt more technical routes.

With the additional risk associated with free soloing on steep ground, I found myself looking into rope soloing techniques as a way to protect difficult pitches. A fortunate Google search brought me to Andrew Young’s article “Rope Solo: How, Why & Why Not” on Mountainz, which I found to be invaluable when it came to trying to get my head around the intricacies of rope soloing. Although it is a very slow and complicated process, it does offer a way to solo safely on technical terrain by allowing you to protect against a fall.

Not only did I find the technical aspects of Andrew’s article interesting but I also thought that his attitude toward solo climbing in general was spot on – that it is not all a big ego trip and is more about getting into your own space. You get to make all the calls yourself and do things how and when you want, without having to worry about the opinions and feelings of a climbing partner. Do not get me wrong though, I also enjoy climbing with a partner and sharing summit celebrations with a companion. But I have to admit that many of my most memorable experiences in the mountains have occurred while I have been soloing, several of which I was fortunate to enjoy last winter, including an unforgettable bivy spent while descending the West Face of Mount Earnslaw.

The West Face of Mount Earnslaw, from across the Dart River Valley in early summer.

I had topped out late in the afternoon and after abandoning my plan of traversing to the East Peak because I did not want to spend the night on the summit, I began down-climbing the face. As the sun set behind the high peaks of the Darrans, a spectacular shadow was cast on the low-lying cloud cover by the upper slopes of Tutuko and Madeline. Watching the pale sky change hue, from a series of bright pinks and oranges through to a deeper purple and ultimately to the black of night, was truly a humbling experience as I chipped out a ledge and sat perched on the face, huddled in my bivy bag and absorbed in the moment.

When crossing the Bonar Glacier on a windless night, eerie shadows were cast by the surrounding peaks, which were illuminated by a full moon as I approached the South Face of Aspiring. Without the need for a head torch and only the crunch, crunch, crunch of my crampons to disturb the silence, I watched engrossed as the moon traced an arc across the sky, creating a halo above the summit of Aspiring before finally disappearing with the approaching dawn.

Three weeks later, I was awed by the tremendous exposure down the South and North East faces of Aspiring as I negotiated the upper Coxcomb Ridge. Sitting precariously on the lip of an overhang, I tried to summon the courage to jump down to the snowy terrace below. And then there was the sundrenched morning on the summit of Mount Brewster, eating gummy bears – a climbing essential if ever there was one – with unspoiled views south to Aspiring and north to Mounts Sefton and Cook.

The bulk of Mount Cook dominates the north horizon from the summit of Mount Brewster.

But it is not all fond memories and good times – there are also occasions when I have been absolutely miserable and damn near crapping myself. High on the West Face of the Remarkables, I looked down to see the rotten ice slowly breaking away from around my front points. There have been times when I knew there was no time to put in pro and it was a case of move-quickly-or-fall; times when I have cursed myself for straying off route after climbing into a dead-end, then being stuck without a rope to rappel with and having to down-climb, hanging from a suspect tool placement as I kick around blindly trying to find purchase with my crampons.

On the South Face of Aspiring, what had easily been my most unforgettable and enjoyable morning of climbing turned into an absolute nightmare when the sun hit the exit gullies leading to the summit, and all hell broke loose. In a matter of minutes, my blissful bubble was abruptly burst by a shower of falling rock, snow and ice, and I was forced to make a hasty retreat back down the face from my perch at mid-height. I had then slouched across the Bonar, cursing my luck and licking my wounds (quite literally), but I can now reflect on my time on the face and see the invaluable experience I gained from it. We learn from our misadventures and grow with them and I now appreciate that without a decent freeze the previous night, it was inevitable things would start falling with the arrival of the sun, as the weak bonds formed overnight warmed and gave way. I probably would have never ventured onto the face had I known this.

However, it is amazing how quickly the memories of the unpleasant aspects of a climb fade when you think back on it all from the warmth and comfort of home or the pub. The once-vivid recollections of frozen fingers and toes; the heart-in-mouth feeling when you weight a marginal placement in thin ice; and the sleepless nights spent at miserable bivys – all fall from prominence to be replaced by those of breathtaking panoramas, incomparable sunsets and the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction and self-fulfilment you get from topping out on the summit. It is these feelings, along with the promise of exciting new routes and the challenge of the unknown, that draw me back into the mountains again and again.