Industry News
Report from November 2025
High above New Zealand’s knife-edge Southern Alps, a Mount Cook Ski Plane is calling its drop.
All six hundred of its horses are at a seventy-knot gallop to meet a vast tongue of snow-laden glacier—and to ski it.
Is this really about to happen? Can a plane be fit with planks to shred by fixed wing? Worthy questions, with answers seven decades in the making.
What smacks as incredible now was downright fantasy back in the ’50s, which is why it had to be a cheeky Kiwi on the stick. Young Harry Wigley hailed from a pioneering New Zealand family already well-noted for high-country vision. Yet, even by the spirited standard of his forebears, Harry packed an extra portion of ‘romantic rascal.’ Not one to sit idle, he was the son who sought to make daydreams real.
In 1954, a sun-drenched afternoon in September to be exact, and soon-to-be ‘Sir’ Harry was pretty sure sufficient risk had been minimized to justify a test flight. Armored in Tweed and fueled by Giddy, he taxied toward a new chapter in skiing (and aviation) lore.
Goodness knows what was going through the minds of spectators, but Sir Harry’s logs report the man himself had his sights set.
Several hours of flying later, with a world first now on record, Sir Harry compared the milestone to a gadfly landing at the South Pole. Naturally, the wires went wild.
Word of mouth spread quickly, and soon even the Sultan of Brunei was eager for a few laps (yes, really). And the fledgling company couldn’t have picked a more idyllic place to continue perfecting its popular product.
The Southern Alps form an arcing spine of magnificent spears that run the length of New Zealand’s South Island. Strikingly powerful yet shrouded in myth, their merciful beauty has etched its mark upon the soul of any traveler ever to attempt to record having witnessed their grandeur. And their life source breathes on the breeze from Aoraki Mount Cook National Park.
Aoraki itself is Australasia’s mightiest peak. It is Cloud Piercer, and Polynesian mythology dangles that at its heart might be a precious stone of unknowable dimension and power. What is certain is that its 12,000 feet of glittering, diamond indifference has inspired the namesake of the wider region—as well as a wee airport huddled at its feet.
Captivating icy steppes and great rolling tongues of glacier, including New Zealand’s two longest, the Tasman and Murchison, are all reached within forty minutes flying from Aoraki Mount Cook Airport. Understandably, such near surroundings are handy for testing a hydraulic ski mounted to an airplane. And that the subsequent skiing promised to be all-time would be icing on the cake, provided the invention worked, of course.
Pivot points, hinges, and linkage; cylinder, lever, and pump – a read of the crucial components to a hydraulic ski reveals the little mischief usually locked in the heart. Engineering for these beauties varies to suit, but generally speaking, each specialized plank weighs as much as an Alaskan Malamute, features a skiable surface area akin to a mini-bar, and is available for the bargain price of $20,000 US, give or take.
Each ski glides underneath its standard landing gear wheel and can be raised to an above-wheel position for touchdowns on dry turf as easily as turning a lever. But the joy behind the genius outpaces any price.
After seventy years, the sensations evoked during Harry’s inaugural tracks by skiplane live on in perfect preservation: static calm, silent rush, and loosely contained euphoria. Each new year, literally tens of thousands of families are full-on doused with the same awe and wonder—all thanks to the gnarliness of putting skis on snow.
The formula hasn’t changed a lick. Per the conditions of a given day, a particular glacier or icefield is selected, and the ski-jockey in the pilot’s seat does the rest. Run-ins are so smooth it’s tempting to suppose the craft hasn’t actually touched down, but all question is summarily banished in the slash and sluff of its massive carve. And, somehow, it gets even better.
The phattest ’S’ turn ever laid by a motorized beast is barely complete before the skiplane is met by a whirly-bird.
The modern iteration of Sir Harry’s anniversary achievement is to add a kick of a helicopter to the mix. It is a simple concept. And it leaves an impression. For example, the Sultan of Brunei (yes, still really) could cruise one-way by ski plane, the return via heli, with a nice long glacier chill session in-between. And everybody comes away with an aerial “combo experience” offered literally nowhere else on Earth.
It’s said that Sir Harry “didn’t only land a plane, he landed a dream,” but maybe what also landed is The Hook. Whether by ski or by wing, to study a mountain and absorb its presence is to encounter artistry undeniable. There’s power there. It encourages wonder. It proved inspiration enough to spur a man to carve a glacier in a Mount Cook Ski Plane, after all.
