Exploring the magical icy world of Franz Josef

Franz Josef Glacier as seen from the valley it carved out thousands of years ago. Photo / Jill Worrall

Overseas tourists do it; they rave about it; so why don't more Kiwis join them to explore the icy, surreal landscapes on our own Franz Josef Glacier?

Maybe as New Zealanders we still expect to be able to enjoy all our outdoor activities for free, or perhaps it's that we reckon we will "get around to it" sometime in the future.

In the case of glaciers, which are globally almost all in retreat, waiting might not be a good idea.

It's not that such enormous rivers of ice like the Franz Josef are going to disappear overnight but if you want to see them while they are still in their prime, go soon.

The Franz, in the Westland Tai Poutini National Park is one of the steepest glaciers in the world on which visitors can take a guided walk.

When I first visited the terminal face when I was about 10, the glacier had been in retreat and almost no one was attempting to climb it.

Today, more than 300 people a day can be on the glacier, almost all on guided walks or heli-hikes with the Ngai Tahu-owned Franz Josef Glacier Guides.

As part of a national park, the glacier is under the care of the Department of Conservation which actively discourages people from walking on its surface without an official guide - unless they are experienced ice climbers or walkers.

I had the best of both worlds - taken up on to the Franz with my son, who is a glacier guide... and because it was his day off, I was there for free.

As we perched on rocks beside the milky water pouring out from an ice cavern in the glacier's snout I did have second thoughts about the expedition.

Jono had just handed me a pair of crampons to put on but I'd been distracted by watching the guided parties toiling their way up what looked like a near vertical cliff of unstable moraine.

I appeared to be one of the few Kiwis (even many of the guides are from overseas) and there was no doubt I was one of the oldest.

I also doubted that many of them had had a complete hip replacement just five months ago.

But there was no turning back, Jono's street cred could be at stake.

He led the way, wielding a heavy ice axe that all the guides use to cut new steps in the ice or to sharpen up tracks that begin to crumble during the day as the ice melts under the pressure of many passing boots.

Ropelines, secured into the ice, made the trip up less perilous than it looked from river level. But I concentrated on my feet rather than on the drop down onto the rocks below.

After a couple of brief stops to "admire the view' which I 'm sure didn't fool Jono at all, we emerged at the top of the face, with me only slightly out of breath.

Jono looked like he'd just strolled down to the dairy to pick up a paper.

From here we plunged into the ice - sunlight sparkled on the crystalline surfaces and illuminated the aquamarine blues that lay beneath.

We passed through canyons of sinuous, glassy walls where thin layers of glacial dust lay trapped in rippled layers.

There were moulins too - depressions where once water had swirled to create near circular depressions.

This was not the quiet frozen world I expected - water gurgled and splashed under our feet.

We stopped at a water-worn cave and peered down to see a subterranean stream rushing past.

We filled up a drink bottle from a shallow crevasse filled with water that had started life as snow that fell before I was born. It takes about two years for a snow flake to transform into a single sand-sized particle of ice.

From the top of an ice cliff there was a close-up view of the icefield that lay higher up the glacier, which is about 12km in length.

Here the river of ice tumbled down in a tangle of seracs (ice peaks) and yawning crevasses, their depths glowing a luminous blue.

I asked Jono if he'd been in the icefield.

"I sat here once and watched slabs of ice the size of cars falling down from there," he said.

Before we attempted the descent down the moraine again (something I was dreading) Jono wanted to show me an ice cave.

About half his height, the cave was illuminated with aquamarine light from a shaft about three metres in. I'd assume we were there just to admire it. But no, apparently I was going to have to climb through it.

The cave was fluted like a shell, the blue ice smooth and slippery as glass, and as cold as, well, ice.

Even my crampons struggled to find a grip. I was on a narrow ledge, beyond which there was a dark void and the sound of churning water.

I didn't think the gap between the ledge and the far wall was wide enough for me to shoot through into the underground stream but I did suspect that becoming wedged there might not be the kind of post-operative physio my surgeon had in mind.

There was no going back however - for one thing, Jono was in the way (a great way to stop a mum planning a rapid retreat) and anyway I was not sure I could turn around safely.

Jono was the epitome of calm as he pointed out my next hand and foot holds. No doubt the ignominy that would be attached to having to get help to rescue a wedged mother would have meant I would have got out even if he'd had to hack the entire roof off the cave.

What's more I was not going to be that mother.

I emerged up a vertical shaft, relieved but elated and with the precious newly rebored leg still facing the right way.

Jono disappeared back into the cave to find the sunglasses he lost while extracting his mother. They'd been swept away.

By the time I was back at the foot of the terminal moraine I was euphoric.

This had been one of my most memorable travel experiences and there have been some strong contenders over the years.

So join the tourists who know they're on to a good thing... and if you find a pair of sunglasses let me know...

- Jill Worrall

Pictured above: Franz Josef Glacier as seen from the valley it carved out thousands of years ago. Photo / Jill Worrall