By Kevin Drum.
Mount Ruapehu is New Zealand’s largest active volcano, and the North Island’s highest peak. It soars in snow-capped splendour to just under 2800 metres, dominating the surrounding countryside.
In keeping with the translation of its Maori name Pit of Noise, for thousands of years the restless mountain has muttered and grumbled. Sometimes it erupts as if in exasperated rage that its power is confined to the fiery depths of the under-world. It spews out thousands of tons of fine white ash, and hurls glowing rocks the size of cars, hundreds of metres into the air. It is easy to overlook the other hidden perils of Ruapehu, whereby sudden and violent high altitude storms can swiftly transform the serene landscape into freezing life-threatening blizzard conditions. It can be dangerous in the extreme, and fatal for the careless or unwary.
In the mid-winter of 1990, ten infantrymen and one naval rating under the charge of two New Zealand army instructors, set out on a four day alpine survival training course on Mt Ruapehu. The plan was to traverse the summit, then descend down the south western side, to be picked up four days later at a pre-arranged destination.
Day One: Thursday. The weather although cold was clear and fine, when the group set out from the Whakapapa ski area on the northern slopes of the mountain. They ascended to a permanent timber-hut shelter, at 2,650 metres altitude, near the summit crater lake. Here, they would spend their first night on the mountain.
Day Two: Friday. The weather remained fine, and under their instructors’ supervision, they were instructed in the use of survival and mountaineering equipment, and built two snow caves and a larger snow dome, about 400 metres from the shelter. They would split up and spend the night in these temporary digs.
Day Three: Saturday. Overnight the weather had deteriorated, and they awoke to a wild snow storm. They chose to wait it out, however, after several hours conditions eased, and the decision was made to return to the safety of the timber shelter. They barely got fifty metres when the blizzard struck in full fury. Backed by a 150 km/hr gale they were blown off their feet, forcing them to belly crawl. Their position was hopeless and with virtually zero visibility they were forced to turn back, but could only find one cave and the dome. The dome was already damaged, so all thirteen now huddled together in one snow cave, where they remained in the sub-zero temperatures for the rest of the day and night.
Day Four: Sunday. Unabated the storm raged on, piling three metres of snow onto their cave roof which showed signs of imminent collapse. They had to move, to remain would risk being engulfed and buried alive. During a mid-morning lull, they made a second dash to safety. They progressed about 200 metres, until the storm again lashed out with renewed intensity. Even though semi-prone and crawling they were tossed about like loose debris. Their position was now precarious; they were fully exposed on a broad saddle in the teeth of a howling north-westerly blizzard. Metre by painful metre they edged forward, until in desperation they combined to dig a snow trench in which to shelter, and wait for a weather break. Another storm lull, and again they moved forward until exhaustion overwhelmed them. This time they could only manage a shallow trench, prevented from going deeper by a solid ice layer. Conditions were now so violent it was impossible to build any protection as the loose snow was whisked away in a flash. Like a demented being the storm tore at them, harassing, probing, buffeting. An unfastened glove, loose snow goggles, an unsecured pack flap, and worst of all precious sleeping bags, whisked away in the blink of an eye.
Several of the group were now suffering hypothermia and frost bite. Those in the worst condition were bundled up in their sleeping bags and anchored to the ground with ice-axes. They clung on for dear life hoping for respite, but unabated their torment continued.
Something had to be done, and soon.
Late afternoon, and Staff Sergeant Geoff Rameka and Private Brendon Burchell decided to seek help. In their opinion to stay for another night on the mountain would be the death of them all. They reckoned it would take about two hours to descend and raise the alarm, conditions prevailing. Rameka was in prime physical condition, a distance runner, with a love and affinity for the environment, and familiar with Ruapehu. Burchell was younger, and fittest of the group.
Rameka says. ‘Our decision to leave together probably saved both our lives. I had a thorough knowledge of the mountain and Burchell had tremendous fitness and stamina. Together we had a better chance of survival.’
It was a herculean effort in one of the worst mountain storms on record. Near zero visibility forced them to the exposed western side of the mountain. At one stage Rameka fell over a ten metre ledge damaging his lower back and breaking his coccyx. But quitting wasn’t an option, back up near the summit there were eleven lives depending upon them for survival. He takes up the story. ’Urged on by Burchell, and adrenaline-charged we ploughed on. Burchell’s fitness was my equal or better. I’m not too proud to admit, that following my fall, I prayed to my Maori ancestors for deliverance. Wouldn’t you know it, an isolated electrical storm briefly lit up the night sky, which enabled us to fix our position with familiar landmarks?’
It took not two, but seven energy-sapping hours in the atrocious conditions for them to emerge from the snowline. They then changed course, moving north across the ridges until they struck a running stream. While deciding their next move they heard an odd noise. Looking up, less than six metres away across the creek stood a magnificent mature stag. It stood stock-still staring directly at them, and then with a snorting toss of his head, the steam flumes streaming from his nostrils, took off. They crossed the creek and found a track marker on the exact spot the deer had been standing.
The guiding hand of Rameka’s ancestors once more was at their shoulders, as they followed the track to a shelter hut. The two men inside, hastily prepared a hot cup of milky sugar-laced tea, but they had to keep moving. With a torch, and a tomato each they set off, the men calling after them.’ Keep heading north, you should eventually cross the Bruce Road.’
Three hours later in the distance below, they saw headlights heading up the mountain. They had to make the road and intercept the vehicle, before it passed them by. With every last ounce of their fast-waning strength and determination, in the darkness, they ran. Jumping fallen logs, and crashing through clinging vines and bush, they ran. Falling, regaining their feet, and shouting encouragement to each other, they ran. Lungs burning, leg muscles aching and cramping, and eyes streaming, they ran. Finally collapsing exhausted onto the road in front of the approaching vehicle.
It was a Snow-cat operator on his way to start his road-clearing shift. They crammed into the utility and headed to his work depot. From there, eleven tortuous hours after leaving their stranded companions, they raised the alarm for assistance.
Back up on the mountain things were grim. Privates Sonny Tavake and David Stewart, assisted by Lance Corporal Barry Culloty gathered the men together and prepared them for the night ahead. They were leaderless, after the remaining instructor abdicated his position of authority, saying, ’It’s every man for himself.’
In turn they found and unpacked the remaining sleeping bags then bedded down each man, positioning them with as much cover as they were able. Already, some of the men were in a state of semi-collapse and had to be assisted into their bags. Culloty deteriorated suddenly and was dragged into a sleeping bag by Stewart who stayed with him. Others had lost clothing and were provided with replacements by both Tavake and Stewart. Exhausted, they were last to retire for the night.
Day Five: Monday. Help arrived in the early morning. The storm had eased but the conditions were still unfavourable. The men were eventually found off-course, 300 metres from the timber shelter. There were just five survivors. The mountain had claimed six lives during that last frightful night. They were all aged between eighteen and twenty-three years.
Several protracted military enquiries, and nine years later, due to the shamefully slow bureaucratic pace, the survivors were eventually acknowledged. The day finally arrived, and watched by their proud families, Brendon Burchell, Sonny Tavake, and David Stewart (posthumously), were presented with The New Zealand Bravery Medal for heroism.
These three courageous non-ranking fine young men, after so long were publicly recognised, for selflessly taking charge, and risking everything for the welfare and safety of others, with Stewart paying the ultimate price.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kevin Drum is an avid aspiring writer. The eldest of seven children, he was born in 1944 in the tiny New Zealand town of Raetihi and emigrated to Australia in 1967. He satisfied his passion for big trucks working for truck companies, beginning as a mechanic and relief driver, then as a manager. From 1980 until his retirement in 2016, Kevin was in business, first in Mt Gambier, later in Melbourne.
A proud father of two wonderful daughters, with four granddaughters, and happily married to his beautiful wife of nearly twenty-five years, who also brought her two sons into his life, Kevin enjoys all types of reading, with a special interest in history and biographies. He enjoys sport and played rugby, but has now switched his allegiance to Australian Rules Football as a Sydney Swans supporter.
Kevin started writing ten years ago with letters to newspapers, commenting on current affairs which he continues to this day. He also commenced a personal memoir, but soon realised he needed guidance and skills improvement. He was a member of Melton Wordsmiths for several years, and joined Belmont Page/Geelong Writers after relocating in 2017 to enjoy life in retirement at Drysdale on the Bellarine Peninsula.
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