No country for cold men

Back country survival ... tents pitched in the snow in Kosciuszko National Park.Credit: Ben Stubbs

With snowshoes, a 20-kilogram pack and a sense of adventure, Ben Stubbs heads off-piste to learn the skills of survival.

'What? Australia has mountains? With snow? Are you sure you don't mean Austria?''

I don't know how many times I've heard this when I tell international visitors about Kosciuszko National Park. As frustrating as it is for those, like me, who grew up in the Snowy Mountains, it's true that the region isn't often regarded as a rival to the Swiss Alps or the Rocky Mountains for alpine grandeur.

I beg to differ.

For me, Australia's Main Range is unique and I've enrolled in a back country survival course to allow me to plunge even deeper into the region during winter.

I head along the Snowy Mountains Highway, past the granite tors and the gnarled snow gums to Dead Horse Gap, five kilometres beyond Thredbo Village, and meet Chris Brown, of the Snowy Mountains Climbing School. Our group of six is a mix of curious locals and serious mountaineers looking to sharpen their skills before attempting climbs in Alaska.

I have never wondered what it would be like to walk through the snow like a duck but I get a good idea as we climb through knee-deep snow drifts with 20-kilogram packs on our backs. My snowshoes, which resemble tennis racquets with teeth, are all that stop me from sinking in and falling over. Brown shows us how to use the snowshoes properly: walk with feet splayed slightly, and walk straight up the rolling mountain slopes, traversing across only when absolutely necessary. As Brown says: ''When you're carrying a heavy pack, you don't want to walk sideways if you can help it. All it takes is a gust of wind and you'll be tipped off the mountain.''

Brown has an accent that slips between Australian and American and the sort of bronzed skin that suggests he's spent much of his life outdoors. As we chat on a break under the shade of a snow gum, he tells me he was born in Atlanta and moved to Alaska ''to find some mountains''. He has since worked as a high-altitude mountain guide in Ecuador, Peru, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan.

At the crest of the ridge we look out across the mountains of the Main Range; below are the headwaters of the Murray River, the Snowy River and, in the distance, the blue smudges of the Victorian Alps. I watch the mini snow tornadoes spin and lift off the top of Rams Head peak ahead of us as the afternoon gusts move in.

On our march upwards I chat to Philippe, one of the other participants, who is hoping to use his mountaineering skills in the French Alps when he returns home to visit his family later this year. We reach our camping spot at an elevation of 1800 metres, just below South Rams Head. Having worked up quite a sweat on the five-kilometre uphill trek, Brown says the trick to staying warm isn't to stand still and let the sweat dry; we should rug up immediately and trap the moisture to heat up again.

With warmth and shelter our most important priorities, we begin to make a snow cave. Brown emphasises that snow caves should be a last resort only - you should always carry a tent into the back country and even a bivvy in a trench is a more reliable form of shelter.

We find a suitable slope and begin digging into the mountainside. ''Building a good snow cave is like being a good pool player,'' Brown says. ''If you know the angles you have to work with, it'll be much easier.''

I dig about two metres in the first hour and crawl into my cave. Surrounded by snow, I'm freezing in seconds and I realise how difficult and dangerous this is as a survival option.

Joining the others who are clearing a campsite, I watch as igloo-like walls are built in V-shapes in front of the tents to divert the wind. We construct a kitchen enclosure out of snow blocks, with bench tops and seating for the group.

With our accommodation secure, Brown takes us to a ledge with a 40-degree drop to learn self-arrests, a survival technique used when you slip on a steep slope or an icefall and have only your ice axe and boots to stop your descent.

I push off the edge like a slippery-dip, instantly feeling the ice on my back. Snow flies up and under my clothes as I move like a bobsled down the mountain. My speed increases and I hurtle towards a clump of snow gums and exposed rocks below. With only seconds to react, I grab my axe and thrust it into the ice above my left shoulder. It digs in and I swivel, kicking my boots into the snow until I stop. With a face full of snow, I peer up at Brown, who gives me the thumbs up and the others applaud my effort.

I try three techniques: feet first on my back; head first on my stomach; and, the most disorienting method, where I'm pushed off the lip head-first and on my back. Brown says it is a technique that has saved him three times in the past 25 years while on expeditions.

The mood of the mountains changes as we finish our self-arrest exercises. Dark purple clouds percolate near Mt Kosciuszko and we take it as a hint to head into the dinner tent. Sleet starts falling outside and the temperature plummets as we tuck into our meal of homemade burritos. If the weather doesn't clear tomorrow, we'll have to sit out the storm in our tents. This prompts discussion about the most important motto for mountaineers all over the world. Regardless of preparation and training, the weather is the master of the mountains. Brown lives by the slogan ''hurry up and wait'' when climbing. He says he never rushes anything; cutting corners can mean the difference between life and death.

With the wind lashing the kitchen, we agree it's time to sleep. I burrow into my sleeping bag. The storm doesn't ease; sleet and wind batter my tent all night. As dawn breaks, snow is still swirling around us and the fog allows visibility of only four metres. Then the snow starts to fall heavily, building in clumps on the pink and green snow gums around us. I decide to go for a snowshoe to warm up my frozen toes.

I look around in the mist. I'm up to my shins in powder, the mountains above me are covered in snow, the wind is roaring across the peaks and through the rocks and dead trees I can see the curl of frozen rivers below. With this rugged alpine weather, anyone could be forgiven for thinking we were in a snowstorm in the middle of Europe, somewhere just like Austria.

Ben Stubbs travelled courtesy of Tourism NSW.

FAST FACTS

Getting there

Dead Horse Gap is a five-minute drive beyond Thredbo. From Sydney, it is a five-hour drive along the Snowy Mountains Highway.

Snow survival

Snowy Mountains Climbing School runs a variety of snow adventure and survival courses during winter. The two-day back country snow craft course costs $590 and includes guides, equipment and food for the weekend; see www.snowymtns.com. For further information see www.visitnsw.com.au.