Knackered As

I remember this old Archie comic, where Mr. Lodge (by virtue of being a dickhead) tells Veronica that it'll be a cold day in August that Archie will be allowed to go swimming in their pool. The gag is that Archie calls the weather bureau in the last panel (I don't know when this comic must have been printed, but he actually speaks to someone on the other end of the payphone instead of just Googling it on his iPhone like a regular person) and asks what the chances are for a blizzard in August.

That joke isn't really funny anywhere in the world, but it wouldn't even make sense in New Zealand, because August is their February. It's cold, man. I walked down the streets of Methven on Friday afternoon with a pair of skis hoisted over one shoulder, clunky ski boots in one hand, and a pass for Mt. Hutt in my back pocket. It was June 14, and I was getting ready to go skiing down a mountain in the Southern Alps of New Zealand.

I went out for a couple of drinks at the Last Post on Friday night – just a couple, I had an 8:00 am pickup on Saturday morning. I wrote a little commentary on my time in Methven for the Snowfed, a local weekly magazine, and have actually been recognized as “that Canadian guy” a couple of times now. Seriously, world famous in Methven is a thing – it wasn't by a ski bunny yet though, which is pretty lame. At any rate, it led to a few chats at the bar. One woman said, “Ah yeah, Canada, I'd like to go there. Too bad I can't.”

I don't remember exactly what I said, something along the lines of, “Ahhh it's not that far/that expensive/carpe diem, etc., etc.”

At which point she says, “No, I mean, I did something stupid a few years ago, so I'm not allowed.”

Come on now. I get awkward the best of times, but here my brain was rattling, wondering what the social protocol here possible was. What did you do?! What did you do?! Ah man, can I just ask? Is that cool? Are the Mounties after you? Uh oh, how long have I just been sitting here, staring with my mouth hanging open? “Oh. Well, there's still lots of other places out there. Excuse me a minute.” I hope that bathroom has a window I can escape out of.

It didn't, and I never found out why this woman is not allowed in Canada, the United States (except on a holiday visa), and some countries in the EU. Whatever, I was going skiing.

The first time I took skiing lessons at Marble Mountain in the Humber Valley of Newfoundland, I was 5 or 6, and had no interest in learning how to stand up, make a pizza shape with my ski tips, or turn. I wanted to go to the top of the mountain. When they finally brought me up the chairlift, we stayed on instead of getting off, and I have a feeling I cried the entire ride back. Suffice it to say, I didn't catch the skiing bug that day, and stayed away from the slopes for close to a decade. When I did start getting a season pass, though, that became my weekends during the winter, until I high-tailed it to St. John's.

I don't know what it is about skiing – maybe the controlled rush of it. Either way, it's one of the only sports out there that I legitimately like doing, where I can get tired and cold and wet and still be rearing to go. It's a bit of a love affair at times. Methven is a ski town, and it's starting to buzz now, as those people from all over the world who chase winter set up a base here. And they're excited to get on that mountain.

So, with the season opening on June 15, I rented some Salomon X-Wings, boots, and poles from Big Al's, and picked up a one-day pass for Mt. Hutt – no sticker to slap onto your jacket zipper, this is a plastic card with my name on it, computerized so that when you get to the lift gate, a scanner picks up the chip in your pocket and lets you in. I feel like Marty McFly in Back to the Future Part II. 

The Snowman Shuttle stopped outside the front door bright and early Saturday morning, with the sun rising out over the plains, the air chill enough to see your breath, and the mountain peeking out high over Methven. The drive up takes about 45 minutes – if you go up in a 2WD vehicle, you need to pull over and put chains on your tires midway, since this is a dirt road going up a mountain, not a parking lot off to the side of the highway. So I was glad to let someone else worry about the driving, while I watched the world come to life outside the window and the grassy lowlands morph into a rocky, snowy ski field.

Sweet, I'm going skiing – and in the middle of June, at that! In a way, a lot of the major parts of this trip came together for my skiing adventure: Stewart gave me the thermals in Tauranga, Alan gave me the winter jacket in Arrowtown, Des gave me the pounamu necklace in Te Anau, and Colm gave me the waterproof pants in Methven.

The only way this will make sense is to put Mt. Hutt into perspective. Anytime people say, “Ah, Canada! You must do heaps of skiing!” I always have to say, “Yes, but not what you're thinking of.” Canada's a big country, and the East Coast is a lot different than the Rockies, so I'd never been taken by a chairlift to a summit 2000 m high before. Marble Mountain peaks at 546 m, but keep in mind that nearly all of that is part of the vertical drop (the carpark sits at 10 m). So even though all of Mt. Hutt is above the treeline, the skiable part is just 683 m of that – bigger, but we're not comparing apples and oranges here (and part of that 683 m was below the base, closed off today, so both hills were pretty similar, as far as the vertical height goes).

So, the whole thing is exposed rock, rather than trails through the forest. That's the fundamental difference, and once you get past that, you could be cruising down Tower 16 rather than Hubers Run. A lot of things that you didn't realize you forgot about come back real quick: the way you lift one leg slightly as you carve down a hill, the way everything looks orange-tinted through goggles, the sound of a boot locking into a binding, the little jolt of the chairlift (every time), the way it sucks to unload at the top when you're squeezed between two snowboarders, the funny way your hair gets when you've been wearing a hat all day, the shade of red your nose turns, that smell of a couple layers of wet clothes, that feeling of pure unadulterated bliss as you loosen your boot at the end of the day, the ache in your thighs when you stop because you haven't been skiing in two years.

Most of the more intense runs were still closed at Mt. Hutt, since it was just the start of the ski season and they need more of the white fluffy stuff. They had a sign posted at the top – in typical Kiwi fashion, of course:

That didn't stop the crowds, especially in the morning. The Summit Six, the main chairlift that brings you right to the top, can seat six people, and it was going full tilt, at least until around noon. The runs that were open were a pretty good mix, usually with a bit of a kick to them. There was still an icy crust on parts, which made carving a bit of a fool's mission, but once I had my ski legs back, it was cruisy. 

"So I'm still trying to absorb the fact that it's the 15th of June, and I'm on a ski 

field in the Southern Alps of New Zealand . . . skiing!" Nar bitta wind, wha?

After a warm-up for lunch, the big rush of the morning had calmed down a bit, and the weather (which had been mild and a dark grey overcast) turned a little bit wet and nasty. Blowing and drizzle, right in your face – the chair even had to be shut down for half an hour or so, because the winds were so fierce at the top. Today was the first time I got to the top and had a guy standing on the offloading ramp, yelling at everyone to make sure they use their poles – and even so, it's a struggle, facing right into that frosty gale.

What views going down though, looking out over the valley from the top of the world. Fog built up in the little dips in the afternoon, so you were looking out over a moth-eaten blanket between peaks. There were plenty of backcountry options too, from the top of Mt. Hutt, right next to legal disclaimers about the risks. I have a feeling if any of the ski patrol guys had to come bail you out, they'd be more interested in hearing about how awesome it was than how reckless it was.

A bit of sun broke through the wisps of clouds, softening the snow and making it feel something like spring skiing. I know what that feels like – it may have been the opening day of the season, but it was also the last day of my ski season. Of course it would have been nice to have been in town when all the runs are open and there's fresh powder on the ground, but my taste of real alpine skiing was a good one nonetheless. As 4:00 rolled around, I'd been on the mountain for the better part of 6 hours, and to use a word from Newfoundland, I was satched. To use a word from New Zealand, I was knackered (actually, if we're really getting with the Kiwi lingo, I guess I was knackered as). I could have slept on the drive home without trying too hard.

I saw, today, a fleeting glimpse of What Could Have Been. I could have opted to stay in Methven for the rest of this trip – gotten a season pass, maybe a job in town, and divided myself between the mountain, the pubs, and family outings. I bet I would have a wicked month and a half, and been really happy. But, I'm at the point, yet again, where I have to pull myself away from the comfortable. The farm in Rakaia is locked up. The keys to the Corolla are hung up. My bags are packed. Because there's another island to see yet, and a few more planned stops on the way (and hopefully a few unplanned ones, too). When I went through the North Island in January, I knew that one place immediately grabbed hold of my soul. I said as much at the time, and I still hold Wellington up to that light. I'm flying into the capital city on Monday morning and having a proper look around, leaving the South Island behind with a feeling that I did what I set out to do (and then some).

I have no idea how this will stack up to the place I've built in my mind, but I'll do my best to have fun finding out.

Cheers,

rb