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Mt. Colonial Revisted or A Little Skill And A Lot of Determination Takes You and Your Mate Over The Top

We stepped down off the train. The station was deserted except for two dogs which scuttled off across the lines as we approached. The hogsbacks were gathering ominously over the Titahi Bay Sewage Outlet (approx. N.W.). I turned to Bagshot Taylor;

"What d'you reckon they'll send us, Bagshot?"

Came the laconic reply,

"Arrr, ring around the moon,

Sky be maroon Rain come pissin' doon."

No one took much notice as it was still brilliantly fine. Trev (call me Herman Bull) Read strode off towards the dairy to tell the shopkeeper of our intentions. These were to climb the infamous East face of Mt Colonial. Many, including myself, had conquered this majestic peak via the S.E. ridge and some had even been up the N.E. ridge (the Cockscomb).

Upon Herman's return we set off, making good time over the first pitch which was Collins Ave . The crux of this stretch was a dangerous intersection which was rather exposed. We next traversed Main Road and successfully negotiated its smooth flat surface which offered nothing in the way of handholds. Then, on up Fyfe Terrace. Up to here we had been on recognised routes but from now on she was all virgin.

"Reckon she'll go?" asked Flash Morton. I just shrugged and skilfully tied a figure-of-eight in the end of my new Eidelrid and slipped it into my Krab.

"Lets get a move on", said Herman as even he was getting cold. The wind was really biting by this time. It bit deep into the flesh, even through the protective shield of our duvets.

The climb proceeded without too many insurmountable odds until we were 200 metres from the summit. From here on up it was an overhanging scree held in place only because it was frozen solid all year round. John "Jumar" Sullivan led out up this pitch carefully placing screws at metre intervals across the roof and clipping and unclipping the etriers with a speed and rhythm which could only be described as poetry in motion. The strain was beginning to show as sweat stains began to appear under the armpits of his aqua-blue duvet and the sweat glistened on his weathered face. One false move and he would have plummeted down, down, down, into the bowels of Linden. After what seemed an eternity he made it. He then secured the rope and the rest of us just swung out from the slope and prusiked up.

The summit was gained at 2 p.m. in worsening sleet. Joe (call me Brown) Kool who we borrowed from the WT &MC's was keen to climb Electricity Pinnacle a tall phallic symbol just off the main peak. He successfully reached the top solo but had a nasty accident while abseilling down. His descender failed and he plummeted 2 metres,landing on his head and severely fracturing his crash hat.(Luckily he was rough, he was tough, he was Tongue and Meat, he could carry on.) So we beat a hasty retreat page 39down the S.E. ridge. Upon reaching the bottom we were greeted by a large group of reporters but, not seeking publicity, we all refused to comment, except for Bill "Bulldog" Foster who insisted that he and 1 did it because we were British.

I would like to thank all those who made this daring feat possible. Special thanks must go out to my old friend Rene Desmaison who sent us each a pair of his personally autographed boots, Mr Salewa who fixed us up with screws and Mr Climax for the hammers.

Super R.G.'s