Spending a week camping on the Tasman glacier for some ski touring had been a thrilling adventure. The first days were filled with breathtaking landscapes and brilliant weather, allowing us to carve our way through the pristine snow. However, adventure in the mountains comes with a dose of unpredictability.

As our group settled in, we watched the sky grow darker and more ominous, a signal of the impending storm. It didn’t take long before we found ourselves hunkered down in our tents, waiting for the tempest to pass. Two days felt like an eternity as we listened to the howling winds and the drumming of snow on our shelter.

When the skies finally cleared, revealing a fresh layer of untouched snow, we decided it was time to make our way back, anticipating another major storm on the horizon. But as we began our descent, our plans took an unexpected turn.

The route we had relied on to navigate the moraine wall and reach Ball Hut and the walking track had seemingly disappeared. It appeared as though nature had played a trick on us, washing away the standard path we had counted on. Even one of our seasoned members, with over three decades of experience in these terrains, admitted that he had never seen it like this before.

We dedicated hours to searching, scouring, and scrambling, hoping to uncover a hidden passage. But as the day began to wane, frustration mounted. It was clear that our efforts were in vain, and the looming darkness did not bode well for attempting a climb up the moraine in such challenging conditions.

The lake stretched out before us, an insurmountable obstacle. With no other options and a menacing storm closing in, we had to make a difficult choice. Climbing the moraine in the dark was risky, and tackling it the next day during a storm would be equally as dangerous.

We weighed our options carefully and came to a decision – it was time to call for help. I reached for my ACR ResQlink 400 PLB and activated it, signaling our distress to the outside world.

It wasn’t long before we heard the welcoming thump of the helicopter blades. A sigh of relief washed over us as the heli descended. Two hours after our call for help, we were hover-loaded onto the aircraft, leaving behind the harsh  terrain.

With a sense of relief and gratitude, we were finally headed home. The wilderness had shown its dangerous side, but our PLB had been our lifeline. Though our misadventure on the glacier had come to an end, the memories and the lessons learned would stay with us as we returned to the embrace of civilization. Thank you ACR.