Expedition Blog - Sam West, South Georgia 2023

What I Came to South Georgia For

Experienced skier, mountaineer and Inspiring Explorer Sam West talks about realising his dream to ski and climb in South Georgia.

Sam West prepares his climbing gear. © AHT/Anna Clare.

Skiing forms some of my strongest memories in life, a constant swirl of snow, gravity and Gore-Tex that plays endlessly in my head. Across mountainsides where any slip would send you tumbling into the abyss. Past gaping crevasses so vast they would swallow a house. Through snow so deep, you have to time your breaths to avoid choking. Days with glistening ice crystals suspended in the air, days where it is snowing so hard you can almost hear the flakes whooshing past your face. On hillsides that were completely bare just one day before, and on glaciers filled with ancient ice, hundreds of meters deep. I’ve put turns in above lonely patchworks of Central Otago farmland, above the perfect circle of forest surrounding Mt Taranaki, above a fiery red West Coast sky as the sun dipped into the Tasman Sea. I’ve skied in a t-shirt and shorts on New Year’s Day, and six layers of fleece and down in -30 degrees. I’ve skied dream lines that only come into existence for a few days once every 20 years and groveled for hours carrying my skis through the forest only to turn around without even touching snow. Even with a short lifetime of these memories, it’s still hard to comprehend skiing on South Georgia a few weeks ago. In some ways it was no different to any other ski day, but at other times it feels like it might have been one of those you dream about for rest of your life.

For climbers, the process of agonising over gear, weather, terrain and snow is second nature, mental calculus with a constantly changing formula. Our goal was Mount Hodges, its sweeping ridge capping the sky directly behind Grytviken, a consolation prize after foul weather forced us to abandon our attempt on Mount Worsley a few days prior and a change to the permit was obtained for the climbing team to take on Mount Hodges instead.

When we stepped out of a zodiac onto a snow-covered beach, and cautiously slipped past dozing elephant seals it started to sink in – we were going skiing on South Georgia Island. As a team, we skin up a shoulder and look down into Grytviken, the only inhabited outpost on South Georgia, with its church nestled among rusting relics of the whaling era. Rounding the corner we catch glimpses of Mount Paget, the highest peak on South Georgia, its 2935m high bulk looming on the horizon.

Skinning up from the beach in Grytviken. ©AHT/Sam West.

Lydia Bradey skinning under Mt Hodges. ©AHT/Sam West.

Looking towards Mount Paget and the Allardyce Range, blue sky belying the viscous wind.

Looking towards Mount Paget and the Allardyce Range, blue sky belying the vicious wind. ©AHT/Sam West.

The team discussing ski lines on the way up. ©AHT/Sam West.

As we join the bottom of the ridge, the snow runs out, sublimated into oblivion by the unrelenting wind. We swap skis for crampons and ice axe, weaving between patches of shattered rock. Gusts are gnawing at my left side, and exposure gnawing on my right. I shrug off both and keep moving upwards. Upwards, away from the beach laden with seals, away from the bay choked with icebergs. Away from the ship full of people climbing vicariously with us, watching our tiny silhouettes slink along the ridgeline a thousand meters above. Thoughts billow through my head. How did I end up here? Wow this is a long way from home. Is this like any other mountain or is there something special here? How much worse will the wind get? Wonder if Shackleton ever got any turns in?

I stand smiling on the summit, buffeted by the full force of a Southern Ocean gale. Looking around I imagine being on some of the other mountain I can see. Has anyone even been there before? Turning to each other we try to speak, only to have the wind snatch the words out of our mouths and carry them away, off into an endless loop around the furious fifties. We travelled for 12 days, by plane, bus, ship, Zodiac, ski and foot to stand here on this patch of snow. I try to find some hidden meaning, some unspoken truth. I look around again and decide maybe it was the people all along. You could go anywhere with these people and have the time of your life. I take one last look at the view, savouring it because I know I will not be back here anytime soon.

Clouds have filled the sky, a sign that our four-hour weather window is closing. We go down, reversing every step, weaving past the shattered rock, hugging the ridgeline, moving delicately over the icy patch with the lurking exposure. Get back to skis and grin as I snap into my bindings and slide downhill, the acceleration a perfect antidote to days spent confined on the ship. I cackle, arcing turns down the side of a mountain, above a bay full of icebergs, in the middle of the Southern Ocean. I turn around and watch my friends do exactly the same thing, leaving their own ephemeral scribblings on the snow. We ski together across a plateau, back to the shoulder and follow a ribbon of snow down to the sea.

Our last few minutes on land are spent at the grave of Sir Ernest Shackleton, the man who pulled us all here. We toast Shackleton and pause, each person lost in their own thoughts. It is hard to imagine a more fitting end to a ski tour on South Georgia. I commit the day to memory, another one for the swirl.