Cleve Cartmill Consulting was famous for the splendour of its office Christmas parties. Stories from the fabled 1980s of frolics on a chartered 737 and in a disused West Coast coalmine were the stuff of legend around the watercooler.
Still, the late 1990s had not been without merit. The 1998 party was held in a fleet of hot-air balloons cruising above the Canterbury Plains, with grappling hooks supplied to aid social interaction. In 1999 it was blackwater rafting and champagne at Waitomo.
Now it was Christmas 2000, and the team headed south again: from Wellington to Queenstown by chartered jet, from Queenstown to Wanaka in a fleet of light aircraft, and into the mountains by helicopter. They dropped out of the clouds to find a marquee waiting on a high plateau.
'Is that the best Cleve could do — a campsite?' sniffed one of the Government Relations team. 'I thought we were in for something special this year.'
It had to be admitted that the view was spectacular. South of them, a saw-toothed mountain etched the sky. To either side, the land dropped away sharply into shadowed depths. To the north, a stream tinkled through rock and tussock.
Spectacular, and yet nothing that couldn't be seen in an advert for off-road vehicles or the more manly brands of beer. The procession of penguin-suited waiters trekking from supply tent to party marquee amid the bleak landscape was diverting, and the outfitting of the marquee itself left nothing to be desired, but among the guests the prevailing mood was one of faint disappointment.
Still, they were here to enjoy themselves, and the booze and the food were free. Christmas began to work its magic again. As the night wore on, cleavages grew more spectacular, tushes more enticing. Faces lined by age and fear regained the sheen of youth. Before long, couples could be found wherever nature and art conspired to afford privacy. Passion blossomed under the tables and amid the piles of empty serving dishes.
Some couples sought their bower outside. Night had fallen, however, and a thin and icy wind had risen to shrivel love and lust alike. The tents provided for the waiting staff (who had been flown in the day before) gained an immediate appeal. Purses and wallets were produced and bargains struck. At times during that night rows of waiters could be seen, shivering a discreet distance from their tents, cold but well rewarded.
As the night wore on, alcohol took its toll on all but the hardiest. The marquee was full of snores, belches, and farts. Cleve Cartmill stepped between the prone bodies and smiled. So far, it had all gone exactly to plan.
Preparations to dismantle the site began at 9am. Within half an hour, the bustle of orderly activity and the roar of incoming helicopters had woken even the most red-eyed. Before they departed, the waiters passed around water bottles and multivitamins, and from somewhere the miraculous smell of coffee was rising. But before there was time to savour it, the marquee and the Port-a-loos were helicoptered away.
The partygoers blinked in the bright morning sunlight. The view looked more impressive now, and even the most rugged off-road vehicle might hesitate to tackle these jagged peaks with their overburden of snow. It was cold, and they shivered, huddled together for warmth, and speculated about the tarpaulin-covered bundle that had been set down in place of the marquee.
As speculation turned to agitation, a shout: Cleve Cartmill and his black-clad HR team were approaching around a ridge to the east. They walked quickly, confident in the broken terrain. They halted. Cleve Cartmill held up his hand for silence.
'Thanks for coming, everyone,' he said. 'It's been a great party. My last party, because I've sold a controlling interest in the company to Nansen and Associates. They need to let quite a few of you go.
'We thought we'd design the selection process to reward initiative, so this is how it's going to work: we've set up the recruiting office for the restructured company in Haast. The first seventy of you to get there will keep your jobs.' He was having to shout now; a helicopter was descending behind him. 'Thanks for all your loyal service. Goodbye.' Before anyone could react, he was gone.
Even at the height of the party, HR had kept their distance, a taut-faced crew approached at one's peril. Now their leader stepped forward and raised her hand for silence. 'Mr Cartmill asked me to give you some additional information. We are within the boundaries of Mount Aspiring National Park. The plateau on which we're standing is located on the Main Divide at a height of fourteen hundred metres. It's called Rabbit Pass. To the east, the East Matukituki River drains into Lake Wanaka. To the west, the Waiatoto River drains into the Tasman Sea, south of Haast. This stream to the north is the headwaters of the south branch of the Wilkin, which drains into the Makarora River, which also drains into Lake Wanaka. Mr Cartmill wishes you to use best practice principles to find a solution to the current problem.'
'Does calling up a helicopter with a cellphone count?'
HR shook her head. 'This site has been carefully selected to be out of cellphone range. Has anyone brought a mountain radio or a GPS receiver?'
Silence.
'Good. Mr Cartmill has provided equipment for you: packs, boots, survival gear, rations and clothes. You'll find it's individually labelled. Please locate your gear and put it on.'
HR pulled back the tarpaulin to reveal the gear. It fitted well, though the new boots pinched. Now they knew why they'd been asked for so much biometric data a couple of months back. When they were dressed, HR called them back together.
'You will split into three groups to investigate the three options, then report back here in one hour. We will then decide a transparent, contestable process for resolving the problem. Now, please form into three groups.'
Cue aimless milling around in the best playground tradition.
'Very well, I'll count you off. East Team is one, West Team is two, North Team is three. One, two . . .'
East Team's route was blocked by the ridge around which Cleve Cartmill had appeared, so at first they had to go south, then make their way east towards the edge of the plateau. They walked to the edge. They stepped back. Very cautiously, they walked forward again, and looked down.
They were high above the head of the East Matukituki, and the first few hundred metres of the descent went almost straight down. The cliff was unbroken to their right and left. There was no way down that cliff without rope, a lot of rope. They had no rope.
'There's a ledge off to the left. Maybe things get easier that way?'
They trooped north-east along the narrow, bare ledge. After a kilometre or so, they found a gap in the cliff where broken blocks of grey stone sloped steeply down towards the valley far below.
'Looks like this is our only option. Guess we should get back and tell the others.'
'Get back and tell the others? You don't think those bastards are going to wait for us, do you? They're probably halfway to Haast already. You can go back if you like, but I'm getting down here as fast as my legs will carry me.' The speaker — one of those jut-jawed types from Corporate Affairs — set off. He had gone no more than two metres when the loose shale slipped beneath his feet. He sat down, hard, and slid almost to the edge of a small bluff before he found solid footing again. He rose to his feet and glared at them.
'Are you buggers going to stay there all day?'
They looked at each other, then, in ones and twos, started down to join him.
Meanwhile, West Team had made it to the western edge of the plateau and down into a gently-sloping basin with no trouble at all. 'This', one said, 'is going to be easy.'
It all started well for North Team, too, as they walked beside the chuckling stream. The ground sloped gently, the sun was shining, and they could hear the occasional piping of some alpine bird. There were flowers dotted here and there amid the rock and tussock. Their route was plain, and for good measure some helpful soul had marked it with tall orange poles. The poles continued right to the edge of the precipice that made this one of the most difficult tramping routes in New Zealand.
The drop mattered little to the fledgling south branch of the Wilkin River, which flowed merrily over the edge, fell straight down one hundred metres, bounced a couple of times, and resumed its wanderings on the flats below. But North Team would need ropes, parachutes, or wings to join it there.
They fanned out across the valley to look for a way down. At last, well to the west, they found what looked like a trail edging down a steep snowgrass slope above the cliff proper. Two of the party, veterans of the firm's indoor climbing wall, volunteered to investigate it.
'Hey, there's a ledge below the snowgrass! It's narrow and steep, but it's heading the right way. Who's coming with us?'
Not even the threat of redundancy would compel most of North Team to tackle the descent, but a few were willing to take the risk.
'Right, you lot have had your chance. We'll be halfway to Haast by the time you make up your minds.'
'You'd better hurry,' one of the refuseniks said. It was clouding over from the north. There was rain coming.
The sun was still shining on East Team, but the sweat was clammy on their brows. They had come down thirty metres from the ledge above, with many cries of panic as the loose rock shifted beneath their feet, but now they were stuck at the top of a ten-metre bluff, below which was a chute of icy snow.
'Why the hell didn't they give us any rope?'
'Too easy, maybe?'
'What the fuck, I'm going down.'
So saying, the hero from Corporate Affairs lowered himself over the edge, scrabbling for footholds. He found one and was searching for another when the rock he was using as a handhold gave way and he crashed to the ice below. By the time he had recovered from the shock of landing, he was sliding, with no way of slowing himself. The snow slope ended far below in a scatter of boulders. He struck them like a human luge, hitting the first boulder with his feet and the second with his head.
East Team watched for signs of life for a while, then began the climb back to safety. When they had almost reached their ledge, there was a shout of triumph.
'Hey, there's a way down here. See? And it comes out above the snow, on that gravel. What do you reckon?'
About half of them reckoned it was worth a go. The other half climbed back to the ledge, still shivering, and made their way back towards the campsite in the gathering gloom. As they got there, they could see the bedraggled remnants of West Team coming to join them. Everyone started talking at once.
'One report at a time, please!' said HR. 'West Team.'
'Shit, you've got to do something! Half our team are stuck in a gully, and Sally Wishart's broken her leg or something. We scrambled down into this basin and everything was fine till we got to the far side. There the stream shoots down through this gully filled with really big rocks. Some of us said that's way too dangerous, but Sally kept saying she could see a way down, and a dozen of our team went with her. We can't see what's happened to them, but there was a rockslide, and Sally's in a lot of pain down there.'
'Is there an alternative way to reach the Waiatoto?'
'Some of us think there might be if you go way off to the left and up a bit.'
'Very well. East Team?'
But the report back from East Team was delayed, because the clouds opened and the rain fell in cold grey sheets. East and West straightened out the tarpaulin, put rocks around three edges, and crawled under it for shelter. The open side faced south, so the first they knew of North Team's return was the sound of their stumbling feet.
'Two of us went over the edge! And half the rest are stuck on a ledge, and water is starting to flow down it.'
'Over the edge? How far?'
'Maybe sixty metres.'
Rain and overconfidence are never a good mixture in the mountains. The two indoor climbing experts had found a way down from the snowgrass onto a succession of mossy ledges, but rain-slicked rock and moss make for poor footing. A false step, a grab at the other for support, and two bodies were lying on the snowgrass fan at the base of the cliff. Those following them had tried to turn back, but it was too dangerous to move. The watchers from above had left a couple of hardy souls on the lip of the cliff and come back for help.
'Can't you call in a helicopter or something?'
HR nodded. 'It's about time.' They produced a mountain radio and set up the aerial. The clouds had lifted by the time the helicopters came. One headed for North Team's ledge. The other dropped directly in front of the campsite, and Cleve Cartmill stepped out. 'Welcome aboard, people,' he said.
By the time the other helicopter came to pick up the two shattered corpses from the snowgrass below them, the sun had started to shine again on the shivering, ledgebound remnant of North Team. The group had split in two, half edging uphill to safety, half downhill to glory. The ascending half made their way back to the campsite and a waiting helicopter, while the descending half were left to fend for themselves. The rest of their descent was accomplished in tiny steps and terse whispers, but once they were on the flats below the cliff, it was comparatively easy to make their way down the south branch of the Wilkin to its junction with the north branch, where they found a hut to stay for the night.
The next morning, it was full speed ahead down the Wilkin to the Makarora. Standing on the western bank of the Makarora, they could see cars on the Haast Highway across the river. That was when someone discovered they were back in cellphone range, and within half an hour the first jetboat had arrived to take them across the Makarora's unfordable depths. Once the first boatload reached the eastern shore, the race to Haast was on in earnest. By dawn the next day, all those who had survived the descent had dragged their weary bodies into the township.
It was two hours after that before the first East Team member reached Haast. Having made it off the treacherous shale with no further casualties, they had pressed on down the East Matukituki Valley until they reached the fearsome Bledisloe Gorge. It took a lot of time, and two near-drownings, to conclude that it wasn't a good idea to tackle it by heading straight downriver. It took longer still to find that the only safe route lay high above them to the left. By the time they got past the gorge, most of them were revising résumés in their heads as they trudged the weary miles to Cameron Flat and the start of the road.
West Team was later still. After Sally Wishart had been helicoptered to safety, the remaining Westies had held a team meeting, as frank as it was open. Then they clambered back to the gently sloping basin, paid better attention to their surroundings, and found a difficult but safe way down. Of course, that still left them in the upper reaches of the Waiatoto River, with its sudden floods, its water milky with rock flour, its gorges, and its dangerous crossings. They were a long way from their destination.
But at last, every surviving employee of Cleve Cartmill Consulting made it out of the mountains. All those who stumbled and struggled to Haast after the harrowing descent from Rabbit Pass were met at the temporary Nansen and Associates office by Hannelore Nansen, given a mug of coffee and a pat on the back, and told to go right on through to HR, don't bother about washing. Sudha from HR was there, and she stood behind her desk and handed them each a letter of termination and their tickets back to Wellington. 'Contact Security to retrieve your personal effects from the office,' she said. 'Your redundancy cheque is enclosed. Good luck!'
The seventy who passed the test — all those who had given up on the three hazardous descents, plus the HR team — were whisked back to Head Office in Wellington to find the furniture changed, the walls repainted, and the Nansen and Associates logo everywhere. Soon they were back on the job, greenwashing the image of the country's worst polluters and setting up artificial grassroots groups to oppose the real ones. The latest was Citizens for Wise Use of National Parks, a front for the mining industry. Many survivors of the selection exercise were more than happy to sign up for that one.
The selection exercise had cost three lives, and there was some muttering in official circles; but Nansen and Associates knew how to spread the corporate goodwill around, and before long it was concluded that an enquiry would be an unjustified drain on the public purse. Death by misadventure was common enough in the mountains.
The 2001 Nansen and Associates Christmas function was held in the office. After far too many whiskies, some idiots decided to traverse the outside of the building, from balcony to balcony. A few people popped their heads out the window to watch, but it was cold out there, and the party was humming indoors. A little later, there was a scream, then another. The party fell silent for a moment.
'Wanted: Web Developers. Must have no head for heights,' someone said. And even HR laughed at that.