I Completed the First Full Ski Descent of Tassie’s Iconic Cradle Mountain

We Are Explorers acknowledges that this adventure is located on the traditional Country of the Palawa people who have occupied and cared for the lands, waters, and their inhabitants for thousands of years. We pay our respects to them as the Traditional Custodians and recognise that sovereignty was never ceded.

‘I think there might be a line in there, if you have a death wish.’

Jacob and Ben had made their way ahead of me on the scenic descent off the summit plateau and were looking down on my planned line from above.

‘What’s it like!?’, I yell back up, sidestepping up a thin, hollow drift of snow.

‘Very rocky, very steep!’

I for one certainly did not have a death wish, and with this news a sense of relief washed over me. I was nervous about this descent. Very steep, sitting above exposure, probably full of steep ice. Now I had an excuse to leave it marked as unridable.

I gained the notch where they were standing and down below me was my planned couloir – or at least one of the three possibilities. A drift of snow led ten metres to an abrupt line of rocks where the pitch rolled over into the abyss and out of view.

‘Okay well it looks doable till at least there, we should go look over the rocky roll. Maybe it’s ok?’ I think.

There was no doubt that both Ben and Jacob were much more interested in the spectacular east face which we climbed past on our way to the summit. Loaded in a thick coverage I hadn’t seen for several years, the east face was bathed in glorious sunshine, its steep ridges and gullies accentuated in the morning light. Carrying skis it was a very hard sight to walk past! But I had another adventure in mind.

I was focused on the steep south face of Cradle Mountain.

The Lure of the Mountain

Cradle Mountain has captured the imagination of many before. The iconic summit was first skied post WWII on wooden skis and a core group of local explorers rode the most obvious east and west face lines during the heyday of consistent snowfalls up until the early 2000s.

Whilst most of Tasmania’s high summits remain elusive for skiing, with long, often multi-day approaches through dense scrub, mud, and notoriously uncomfortable weather, Cradle Mountain is significantly easier to access.

During the winter of 2016, the year I first moved to Tassie, I carted my insanely heavy ski touring setup up to the plateau after a one metre dump the week before. What we found was miserable – 100+mm of heavy rain had washed almost all the snow away. Rain, wind, and no visibility.

It was typical of Tasmania where weather windows are extremely short-lived, often measured in hours. Wait, inadequately read the forecast, or fumble even momentarily on the approach and you miss out. The first lesson of many in Tasmanian skiing, we skied the corniced wind drift west of the mountain and returned home empty handed, yet not without an adventure.

It wasn’t till 2019 that I returned to Cradle for skiing, which took some convincing from Ben who’d skied the east face in 2018. His descriptions of steep chutes, cliffs, and deep wind-drifted accumulations had me intrigued. He even had a single photo showing the tips of his skis resting across a 50º slope.

Crossing the summit ridge to the unseen east face, I was gobsmacked by the terrain. Fat accumulations of deep snow, awesome flutings, and precipitous couloirs. From that point I was hooked!

In 2020, we rode a hidden couloir adjacent to the main peak which I was sure was one of the most spectacular steep lines in Australia, perhaps second behind the Incision Couloir on Federation Peak that we also rode in 2020.

After a rappel off a short cliff below the entrance col, the couloir, two to five metres wide, ran almost dead straight some 300 vertical metres into a unique alpine biome of rocky tarns and gnarled 1,000-year-old conifers.

The problem was that, from the ground, there was almost no vantage point to properly scope out a line on the south face, cliffy ramparts blocking views of three possible gullies. Each of these were of dubious widths, extremely steep, and possibly containing impassable chockstones. Perhaps the terrain was simply too rocky to ever fill in?

After significant sleuthing online I found a few aerial videos taken by an ultralight pilot in half decent snow conditions that made the gullies appear skiable, sort of.

Finding the Elusive South Face Line

I edged into the drift carefully testing the snow conditions. Above the line, the wide linking gully from the summit held excellent quality snow, but the south face may have been swept back to ice during the last storm that came with intense periods of wind.

The ski edges softly cut through wind-compacted snow, it was much better than expected! I eased ahead to the pile of rocks where the ravine rolled over out of view. The others tentatively waited overhead. Since it was my idea I was the guinea pig.

We’d totally nailed the window – a still, bluebird day of stable high pressure had drifted over late the previous day, clearing the last vestiges of the polar outbreak. But over the edge and into the south face there was a stubborn humid coolness to the atmosphere and an earthy smell of wet rock. The aspect protected the face from sunlight for the duration of winter until the change of seasons guided the sunset further south.

Awkwardly manoeuvring around the buried chockstone boulders, the gully was further revealed downslope. Another steeper drift, perhaps 40-45º cut through cathedral-like buttresses of vertical dolerite, blackened by the growth of slippery lichen. Ribbons of ice encrusted the rock ending with translucent icicles that grasped to any horizontal edge. But even here the full line proved elusive.

Another steeper roll and the slope again disappeared out of view. Here the line was more consequential and any mistake would be catastrophic. The snow however, was still wind-compacted powder. I relaxed a little, placing short jump turns towards the steep roll.

Just above the roll I hit a dome patch of wind-scoured ice. Losing my edges, the skis slipped without resistance until I managed to regain control just before the slope rolled over. Shit! My heart stopped for a moment and I firmly gripped my ice axe attached to my ski pole. It was probably a frozen rock.

Regathering my composure I peered down the gully. Here the slope gained steepness through a narrow series of snow and ice runnels about a metre wide. Below, a mellower wide deposition of snow hung above the cliffy wall of the hidden couloir we’d skied in 2021, 2022, and 2023. The runnels were too steep and narrow to ski.

I yelled back up to Ben, Jacob, and Daygin above that I was going to downclimb and put on my skis again at the bottom of the runnel. The downclimb was steep but secure with my knees and helmet often brushing the snow surface. I greatly enjoyed wielding dual axes!

From below the runnel after the downclimb, the gully opened up once more into a hanging snowfield above the rock wall of the couloir. Here wind drifted snow had accumulated behind towering dolerite pillars and there was yet more quality steep skiing down to the lip.

I was able to look over the edge down into the couloir itself. It’d be possible to rappel, but in doing so I’d miss the upper third of the couloir. So instead I decided it’d be more appealing to reclimb the line I’d just skied and trace the mountains shoulder westwards to reach the very top of the couloir.

Going Downnnnn

Skiing the couloir was properly epic. We hot lapped the line, leapfrogging each other through the narrow canyon with giant pyramids of slough deposits that’d slid from the south face. So deep that the cliffy ramps we’d abseiled on previous descents were completely buried. Down below we exited the line where throngs of dense scrub overhung the walls and the snow had become wet soup.

Stepping off our skis we were immediately up to our waist. This was going to be a Japan-esque climb where you’re trenching your way uphill. One step forward and our boots sunk into the unconsolidated abyss and given the steepness, a wall of snow appears almost at chest level.

Using the ski poles we then levered ourselves up each step to start the process again. This went on and on for the best part of an hour before we were back on the col, the afternoon sun lowering out to the west.

By the time we’d reached our hiking boot stash, it was well after dark. At that point we were pretty close and all I could think about was the juicy kiwifruit sitting back at the cabin. It’d been a long day and we were all totally cooked.

I’d earlier suggested an early morning ski the next day, whilst the weather lasted. But that was now well off the cards. It’d been a totally satisfying day out.

But for the lack of consistency, the wild unexplored terrain, pure adventure, and draw of the unknown keeps those who love to explore excited and inspired, frothing for the next adventure. Whenever it may be.

For myself, Tasmania is a place ever present in my mind. Although its hard work and a huge tease, when it all lines up the sense of reward is exponential. And you just know that you’ll discover far more than you first imagined. It’s a place that offers a lifetime of adventure.

Photography by @dayginprescott