PARTNERING WITH NEW ZEALAND CONSERVATION STORIES

Written by David Hannah

 

My connection to Helly Hansen began eight years ago.

At the time, I was working in Canada for a snowmobile company, a young New Zealander abroad, wide-eyed at the wildlife and scale of the coastal mountains of British Columbia.

On our first day on the job, we were told two things.

First: “We’re the best at what we do.”

Then we were handed brand-new red Helly Hansen jackets and told: “And we work with the best.”

That moment stuck with me.

Those jackets saw me through a brutal Canadian winter. They kept me warm, dry, and more than once, got me out of trouble when conditions turned bad.

When I returned to New Zealand, my environment changed, but my relationship with Helly Hansen didn’t. So, when it came time to plan our 2025 summer expedition, they were one of the first conversations I initiated.

The concept we pitched was simple: explore how technology impacts conservation.

We were initially headed into Fiordland, a place that receives up to 7 metres of rainfall a year, and we needed equipment suited to one of the harshest environments in the country. Not just warm gear, but genuinely waterproof gear, capable of handling steep, technical terrain and relentless weather.

The plan was to take acoustic, thermal and drone technology into a remote part of Fiordland with deep ties to New Zealand’s conservation history, and to show how advances in technology could change how we search for and protect species.

Then, at the last moment, everything changed.

A compelling sighting of a potentially extinct bird came through, and we changed location.

It’s important to be clear here: our goal was never to verify the sighting, or to prove anything conclusively. The aim was educational. To demonstrate how modern tools might transform the way we approach the search for species like this, and to do so in the most recent and relevant location possible. If an extinct wild species emerged along the way, great. But that wasn’t the primary objective and we were realistic; it was extremely unlikely to end with a scientific breakthrough.

At the heart of the trip was a simple concept: inspire everyday Kiwis to connect with the outdoors. And one of the best ways to do that is to remind people that there is still mystery out there.

Shifting from Fiordland to the remote West Coast of New Zealand meant we needed to prepare for extremes. We could experience humidity, or the freezing cold snaps the west coast is famous for. We needed layers that could breathe, layers we could strip off, and layers that could handle extreme cold.

Helly Hansen worked with us to build a custom gear list that covered every aspect of the trip, and made sure the entire team was properly fitted.

When we arrived on the West Coast, a box of gear was waiting. Spirits were high. The team were pumped and equipped for a wide variety of possible conditions.

Our objective was straightforward: head toward a mountain that had been climbed only three times since records began, and film a series exploring how technology impacts conservation.

Why that mountain? Our thinking was simple. If an extinct-in-the-wild species were to persist anywhere, it would be where few humans had ever been. Inaccessibility and survival often go hand in hand.

In New Zealand, one of the biggest outdoor challenges is dealing with wildly different terrain in the same trip. It’s technically challenging because it compounds possibilities. You’re not just planning for a wide variety of weather conditions, but also a wide variety of scenarios.

The bush can be brutally dense, with vines, windfalls, ferns, and steep ground. Travel is slow, especially in areas where aerial ungulate control has removed deer and, with them, the game trails bush travellers usually rely on.

Above the bush line, sub-alpine terrain brings spear grass that shreds exposed skin, bluffs that require climbing and sometimes ropes, and weather systems driven straight off Antarctica. All of this, in one of the wettest places on Earth, in the middle of summer. In a sense, you’re shifting from dense jungle like bush, to rock climbing, to sub alpine mountaineering all in the pouring rain or intense humidity.

Planning becomes… complicated.

With no game trails, our only option was to wade up ancient riverbeds and gorges, knee to waist deep, for the first eight kilometres. The forest was primeval: untouched podocarp, massive windfalls left behind by a cyclone over a decade earlier.

Progress was slow. Along the way we spotted whio (the critically endangered blue duck), cheeky weka, curious South Island robins, and heard kea calling above us as we moved toward the mountain we hoped to climb.

After eight kilometres, we reached the base and left the river, beginning the climb up a steep ridge disappearing into mist. That’s where things began to unravel.

The ridge we had ascended had been sculpted by years of storms. Windfalls lay in chaotic piles, rotting timber stacked without rhyme or reason. Any step could collapse your bodyweight through rotten timber and cause injury. Visibility dropped below fifty metres. Route finding became guesswork, entirely dependent on GPS, and it was sobering to think how impossible this would have been without it.

Fatigue set in fast.

Sam began feeling unwell. David took a fall and later found out he’d broken his toe. Johnny slipped and was badly shaken. With daylight fading, we faced a serious problem: we were exhausted, the ridge was steep, and there was nowhere obvious to camp. The ground was uneven, the windfalls deep. There was simply nowhere to sleep.

We stopped and held a quick meeting over a bag of jellybeans, forcing some sugar back into tired bodies.

Do we turn back and abandon the trip? Or do we push on a little further?

In most situations, turning back is the right call. We all knew that. But we were experienced, still functioning well, and agreed to press on for 40 minutes to see if we could find a suitable site. If not, we’d make do with a fly tent and an uncomfortable but safe night. However, in most situations, inexperienced bushmen should turn back in moments like these.

Miraculously, the ridge eased. The bluffs dropped away, and we found a small, level shelf above a stream, with a rocky overhang nearby. We cleared space, pitched tents, and cooked a hot meal. James and Johnny set up an acoustic recorder. Sam and I fell asleep almost instantly.

Overnight, the weather turned.

What was forecast as light rain became steady, driving rain through the night. By morning, the stream below us was swollen and rising. A quick scout revealed the ridge ahead ended in cliffs, passable in good weather, dangerous now.

We were stuck.

With multiple river systems draining off the mountain, we hoped water levels would drop, but we estimated we’d need at least half a day without rain to move safely.

So, we waited.

We spent the day in camp, lying around, tasting food combinations, talking about life and yarning (kiwi slang for telling stories). It’s funny, we chase big adventures, but some of the best memories come from laughing over nothing, exhausted, watching time disappear. At one point I realised it was 10pm and the entire day had passed unnoticed. The best medicine for fatigue, and injury can be a day with mates in a bush camp, and had we done nothing else from the trip I’d have emerged with my bucket full.

The next morning it dawned clear. Blue sky. Sunlight filtering through the canopy.

We packed and began the descent.

Leaving a mountain unclimbed always stings. But it was clear this route needed five days, not three. That became even more obvious on the way down. GPS issues pushed us off route. A 100 metres doesn’t sound like much, until it’s the difference between standing on top of cliffs or falling off them.

We were bluffed out three times and had to reclimb. Visibility was poor. Fatigue was constant. We didn’t reach the river until 3pm, thankfully it was low enough to safely cross. But the fear of not being able too had weighed on our minds all day and probably contributed to some poor decision making about getting off the ridge.

Now we were racing daylight.

Eight kilometres of difficult terrain. Seven hours of light. It might not sound like much, but we had only averaged a kilometre an hour coming in, and we were now fatigued and carrying injuries.

We pushed on, stopping often for jellybeans. My foot was on fire. Johnny was shaken after another fall. But this is where teams matter. No one gets left behind. We rotated positions, paired up when someone struggled, passed packs over windfalls, steadied each other through slips.

At 6:30pm we cleared the worst of the gorges. From there, it was a straight wade to the car.

We reached it just after 8pm. Three hours faster on the way out than on the way in.

The sense of relief was palpable. While it’s easy to feel a sense of regret over not summiting, the true adventure is the journey along the way. The mateship, and connections experienced in the outdoors.

We didn’t return home empty handed either. We left two acoustic stations on the remote west coast to pick up bird calls. We’d explore extensively with drones, thermal, night vision and the latest lighting technology to power our trip.

We returned safe and dry from an area only a handful of people have ever explored. We’ll be back, to retrieve the recorders and to tell the story of this place properly.

For us the real adventure isn’t summiting. It’s the shared experience and the hope that we inspire a generation of Kiwi’s that there’s still mystery out there.