From Gym Walls to Ice and Alpine Climbing in the Wild

Mat has scaled everything from plastic in a gym to walls of ice in New Zealand. He reflects on what drew him into the sport he loves, and what keeps him exploring, learning and pushing in the world of climbing.

I’m climbing a route that I know nothing about, except that it has bolts and looks doable, wracked with uncertainty, nervous sweat beads on my forehead. This is one of my first outdoor climbing experiences…

I sit at the top of a 300 metre wall in the Blue Mountains feeling accomplished and relieved, a few years in. I think I know what I’m doing now…

I accelerate, tumbling towards the ground, my gear has pulled, as I eyeball the rocks that I’m about to land on I have time to think, “This is broken bones…” 

I’m flowing up a huge crack system in Buffalo Gorge, for five hours we flawlessly swing leads, locked in a flow state, now I’m climbing…

I’m sitting on the summit of Mt Aspiring waiting to feel something, I’ve just lead the crux, a pitch of beautiful blue ice with huge exposure, alpine climbing is where I belong…

I tiptoe across a tiny ledge, just below 4000m, deep in the Wind River Range, my cheek presses against cool granite, below my heels yawns the void. I pause and smile, “This is one of the wildest positions I have ever been in while climbing…”

The Journey

These moments, accumulated over 15 years, combine to highlight the incredible journey that climbing can take you on. Climbing has been many things to me over the years. When I first started climbing it was all about conquering fear, but these days it’s a vehicle for exploring wild places and creating experiences that my partners and I will remember forever. It’s no longer purely about going out and getting scared—it has evolved into a lifestyle and a way of being. 

I don’t climb particularly hard, nor do I climb particularly fast. Nothing I do is anywhere near world class or cutting edge. I’m a middling climber with average footwork and an okay head game. Even so, I often struggle to commit to challenging onsights unless my head is fully in it, and I regularly have to check myself when I lament how much I suck. Twice in my climbing journey have I reached a semi-consistent level, around the mid 20s, and both times I have injured fingers. The most recent time this happened I could have cried, I thought I’d finally found the recipe that was going to see me climbing at the level that I want, then snap!

I’ve been climbing regularly for 15 years and what I call ”seriously” since 2019. My journey has taken me through the spectrum: gym bouldering, long sport climbs, adventurous trad lines, aid climbing, high altitude and ice and mixed climbing. 

I’ve done it all and what I’ve learnt about climbing over the years is:

In my mind, this constant evolution is what makes being a climber so worthwhile, whatever your strengths or your desired challenge there is always a path forward, or further down the rabbit hole.

Maybe it sounds obvious or cliché, but like many people I found something in climbing that I can’t get anywhere else. It’s an avenue for growth that allows me to explore wild places while I gain a deeper understanding of who I am. For me it is all about pursuing climbs that challenge and inspire me. If climbing harder and harder grades was the only way to do this then climbing would have lost its appeal a long time ago, because no matter how inspiring I find a route, if it’s above a certain grade I’m probably never going to manage it, and that’s okay. 

The Adventure

The pursuit of numbers has never made me enjoy climbing more, in fact it’s usually had the opposite effect. So instead of pure difficulty I challenge myself in other ways. I choose more adventurous routes, longer routes, routes at higher altitudes, routes with ice and snow. Experience has taught me that there are expressions of climbing skill other than your max grade, things like: efficiency, risk management, your ability to read terrain, gear selection, anchor building, versatility and boldness. It takes more than strong fingers to be a good climber.

It’s interesting to reflect on how much our perspective can change over the years. When I first got started, at the tender age of 19, my buddy Rob and I were full of bravado. We had made our way to the base of Mt Tibrogrargan with our brand-new rope, some quickdraws and a couple of carabiners. Fresh off a Learn to Lead course at the local gym we didn’t even have a guidebook, we just walked along the base of the wall until we saw bolts and some rock that looked climbable.

Learning a new style of climbing is humbling, and regardless of your experience or ability level, often feels like starting back at zero. Whether it’s your first multipitch or your first trad lead these are daunting steps to take—but nowhere is the step larger than beginning your alpine climbing journey. 

Arriving at the crag for your first day trying a completely new discipline of climbing is a bit like the first day of school. You ask yourself questions like: What clothes should I wear? What gear should I take? What should I have on my harness? 

The desire to climb mountains comes from somewhere deep inside me, I can’t explain it, but it’s always been there. It was inevitable that one day I would take the leap. As an experienced trad climber, I hoped my fundamentals would see me through it safely. But with so many unknowns, including the added concern of avalanches, it was a steep learning curve. 

On a clear, winter day two years ago I found myself skinning across a frozen lake, breath fogging the in air, ahead of me, glinting in the sun, huge chandeliers of ice cascaded down from the side of the mountain: I had no idea what this was going to feel like. Two days before, I’d been sweating in Brisbane, now I was traversing a frozen lake with ice axes strapped to my back, wearing three layers.

As I quested up the shining formations, swinging my tools into ice for the first time, it was love at first stick. I’m certain I was over-gripping and my technique was sloppy, but as I stemmed up a corner, kicking in my front points and searching for small concavities to aim my next swing, I was absolutely frothing. When I pulled over the final bulge of my first lead and built an anchor from ice screws, sunnies fogging, getting pelted with falling rime, I knew I was right where I needed to be. Ice climbing felt intuitive. Sure, all of my skills needed polishing, but the balance to stay on the wall and the confidence to climb above my protection were abilities I’d been honing for years.

As a climber I’ve always been drawn to more adventurous climbing, aesthetic routes on iconic formations.

Towards the end of one climbing trip in New Zealand I had a revelation in the form of Weta Prowl, a 300-metre long alpine rock route in the Ben Ohau range. The route climbs Steeple Peak to an elevation of 2,207m, following the path of least resistance (least choss) up a broad slab before gaining the ridge and traversing to the summit. It’s a classic route, known for its atypically solid rock—as they say in New Zealand, “If you find a good hold, make sure you put it back.” Climbing Weta Prowl opened my eyes to a brand-new facet of climbing with little fear, precise movement, creative gear placements and anchor building, all in a wilderness setting, glorious.

Six months later one of my climbing partners suggested we go climb alpine rock in the US for a month. I was halfway through booking flights before she even finished the sentence. It was an incredible trip; we got mileage in Toulumne Meadows, working our way through the classics while we acclimatised in perfect weather. We hiked between evergreens and whispering streams to access world class alpine granite and long adventure routes. We ventured deep into the Wind River Range, setting up basecamp amongst the wildflowers at 3000m. Here alpine starts are mandatory due to the looming threat of afternoon thunderstorms. A picture of the Cirque of Towers had been the inspiration for this entire trip and it didn’t disappoint; the wilderness feel, huge granite towers and bomber rock combine to create the stuff of dreams. Our experience on these routes cemented my love for alpine rock, first inspired by one random choss pile in NZ.

I tell my stories with as much art and beauty as I can to do justice to the memories as I relive them. But it’s not all great weather and fun times. Sometimes the pursuit of inspiration can take you places you’d prefer to avoid. When I first began trad climbing I spent a lot of time at Frog Buttress in Queensland where I learnt to crack climb while I learnt to place gear. It felt desperate and every day I spent there required every ounce of focus and commitment I could muster. With this ”always pushing” mindset I eventually attempted a route above my paygrade: I was stemming and laybacking my way up a thin corner, working hard but feeling in control. All of a sudden, my foot slipped. Even as I relaxed into the fall, waiting for my gear to catch me, I realised I was falling further than I should. I bounced off a small ledge and cartwheeled into the jagged rocks below where the impact drove the wind from my lungs in one of those agonised involuntary groans. 

Even from a few metres up you hit the ground HARD. An experience like that takes some coming back from. Learning to trust your judgment again after making a potentially life altering blunder is not an easy process. Overcoming the doubt and renewed fear took a lot of mileage. It could have stopped me in my tracks; instead it made me a more mature climber. 

I choose to hold onto each one, believing that they keep me safe. Despite being formative, this kind of incident is rare, and every cautionary tale is vastly outnumbered by days of glory. Days where we took a chance on the weather and it paid off or days where my partners and I were so locked in that we flowed together for hours. Those days make the injuries and near misses worth it.

The Connection

One of my most intense experiences of flow state and synchronisation with a partner was in Buffalo Gorge. We were halfway through a four-week climbing trip, during which we climbed dozens of trad routes all along the east coast. Feeling some trepidation, we marched down into the gorge with our quad rack and started up Where Angels Fear to Tread. As we climbed, we were locked in on a level that I have experienced only a few times since. I realised it halfway up the route and told myself to remain present, to just let it happen. I felt that if I acknowledged it or tried to hold onto it too tightly it would slip through my fingers, like trying to hold onto a dream. Years later the route appears as a blur of movement and joy in my mind, with just a few sections I can still picture with absolute clarity: pulling through a small overlap on fist jams, sitting on a bush in the warm sun while I belayed my partner, the big red nut I used in one of my anchors.

Climbing is many things to many people, but it is without a doubt a journey of self-discovery and a vehicle that can take us to incredible places. It can give us rich experiences that few people outside of our community could imagine and it creates unbreakable bonds with our partners, as we overcome fear, assess danger and revel in the beauty together. 

Looking forward, I know I may never climb over grade 25 and I’ll certainly never complete my tick list. Regardless, I will continue following my inspiration wherever it takes me. Maybe one day I’ll even learn to accept my shortcomings and simply be happy to climb, without the negative self-talk. 

What’s next for me? Getting into some wild adventures on remote walls in Tassie this summer. 

What’s next for you?