Eleven strangers sit in an awkwardly spaced circle in the Jindabyne Scout Hall with piles of snow camping equipment on the floor between them.

One by one, they introduce themselves and explain why they are here, sitting on the ground, preparing to undertake an introductory mountaineering course in the heart of the New South Wales Snowy Mountains.

The group comprises three climbing guides, six aspiring mountaineers, and two ABC journalists with a pile of camera gear.

When I first pitched the story about the little-known but rapidly growing adventure sport of ice climbing in Australia, I hadn't considered the logistics of such a shoot.

"It's not Antarctica," cameraman Jack Fisher had said in a planning meeting as we debated how many camera batteries we'd need in the cold.

He'd come to regret that.

Cold at night, ice climber's delight

Civilisation faded away and reality kicked in as we set off in fresh snow from Guthega — 45 minutes' drive from Jindabyne — lugging sleds laden with equipment for two nights of camping and filming.

As the sun set, the temperatures plummeted, the snow on the ground glittering like stars in my head-torch beam.

My boot laces were frozen the next morning, so too my toothbrush and drink bottle. The Snowy Mountains, so it seemed, was an impractical place to live in winter.

But cold nights meant perfect conditions for the ice at Blue Lake.

The shoot

Blue Lake sits at the base of Mount Twynam – Australia's third highest mountain – 4 kilometres from the Guthega carpark.

I was unsure exactly what ice climbing in Australia would entail. A frozen waterfall? Snow-covered rocks?

The reality was far more impressive than I had dared assume — seams of blue ice stretching up a granite crag.

We pulled out cameras as the mountaineers pulled on crampons and harnesses.

What followed was a few frantic hours of navigating around the icy crag with an ice axe as a walking stick, trying to line up some dream shots.

We'd stash camera batteries under our armpits to warm them up, before jamming them in our camera and shooting while we could, before the cold claimed them again.

The camera's lens wasn't wide enough to capture the grandeur of the granite peaks above. Even a bird's-eye perspective from the drone failed to truly show just how expansive and beautiful the mountains are.

Climbing the wall

Then came my opportunity: I pulled on a harness, crampons and, unconventionally, a microphone, and tied onto the belay rope.

With the first swing of the ice tool, I was hooked. It thudded satisfyingly into the ice, sending little shards spraying.

It's an odd feeling clinging to the wall only by spikes protruding from beneath your toes. It's how I imagine Spider-Man feels, sticking to a surface but barely touching it. I was suspended on the side of an icy mountain, floating between a frozen lake and rugged peaks.

It was also exhilarating — addictive. I now understood why our guides spend all their time and money ticking off peaks all around the world.

But I was about to learn a new-found respect for mountaineers overseas.

Battling the conditions

The weather had been ideal while climbing but now the wind whipped snow into our faces and conditions deteriorated towards a white-out. The snowshoe from Blue Lake back to our tents would take an hour.

Suddenly it was feeling a lot like Antarctica. I hate to think how dangerously cold climbing — yet alone filming — must be in the 8,000-metre-tall Himalayas, not the 2,000m Snowy Mountains.

There was nothing to do but put your head down and walk.

Yet, that night, there was elation among the group, sitting in a big tent around a table carved out of snow, as we cooked up a group stirfry on small camp stoves.

We were buzzing on adrenaline and awe, and sad to be returning to civilisation the next day.

We'd survived – thrived, even – in a little pocket of Australia that so many don't know exists, and many will never get to visit. And we'd successfully captured it all on video to share.

What a tremendous country Australia is.