Over the past summer, I spent some time in Fiordland. Over the course of the inevitable rainy days in Homer Hut, the question of where I lived would pop up. I’d mention Tasmania and then proceed to talk their ears off about how good the rock climbing was there until they politely excused themselves once they got sick of my psych. Okay, maybe not quite. But close. What stuck with me from those conversations was the number of strange ideas people had about Tasmania. One person

With the Easter long weekend approaching and a perfect weather window, Steve and I were excited to be heading into the mountains. With the good conditions, we wanted to avoid the crowds so we decided to go slightly further afield to Petite Jorasses. Friday morning, Steve arrived from Zurich and met me at my apartment. I’d spent the past week in bed sick and he reassured me there was no pressure. There was, but it was all self-imposed and fuelled by perhaps a detrimental amoun

Dry tooling is an often misunderstood, ridiculed, and quite uncommon pastime. Up until now, toolers have been shunned: restricted to chosspiles that even Dan Head wouldn’t bolt. Places like the Pink Palace and such do not inspire much awe, and certainly do not encourage newbies into the sport. With so few people coming up through the ranks, the cutting edge of drytooling in NZ is lagging far behind our overseas competitors. Luckily, this is all about to change. Little Babylon