Open Writing

“Join us in Queenstown,” my daughter said, over the phone. She and a friend had booked cheap skiing trips from Australia to Queenstown, The Mecca for skiers. Not only that but we were booked into a deluxe hotel Life couldn’t be bad.

So off we went on the three hour trip, up through the orchard areas, a mass of blossom at this time of the year, and into those snowy mountains. Lake Wakatipu, stretching for miles, and the Remarkables and Coronet Peak, swarming with the international ski set. “Bend zee kneez.”

Sitting on the observation deck, well aware that my now old and brittle bones would not be safe up at the top of the mountain, I watched the skiing enthusiasts, clad in their designer gear, fluorescent suits, hats and goggles, and those fantastic short skis and moulded boots, riding up the chair lifts and skiing down the various routes, and I thought back to our skiing days.

We learnt to ski in the Highlands of Scotland, the far north, during the thirteen years we lived there. Our skis were something out of the Ark.. Mine a pair of Canadian ex-serviceman’s overland skis, designed for someone six foot six and me a mere five foot nothing. Huge things, as wide as the planks you use to build houses with.

My sticks had rings attached to them by floppy bits of leather, so no way would they respond as the fixed rings on modern skis. My boots were my tramping boots, which fiercely fought the huge clips, which I manually struggled to close over them No step in and click in our days.

Our dress was the stuff we wore for hiking, old anoraks and woollen socks with trousers tucked into them. We looked a bit like tramps.

A hydro engineer friend of ours was a good skier and took us in hand. He explained snow ploughs and stem christies and other such techniques, and then abandoned me as I was not prepared to break my neck.

Slowly I followed his instructions, with my huge boats of skis, it took a lot of muscle power and the surplus fat vanished, until, eventually, with a whoop and a yell, he came across the face of the hill yelling, “You’ve got it.”

We were under way, in control of these huge things on our feet.

The hill. No chair lifts It was the hill across the road from the house, the golf course in fact, with a sort of hut at the top which served as the club house. I am not sure when golf had last been played there There were certainly no greens, but it was known as the golf course, and the hill we had to climb to get to it became our skiing venue.

Here we skied day after day. Gordon, our hydro friend, would arrive with flasks of coffee. “What’s the flavour, Gordon,” I asked. “Half a bottle of rum,” he answered.

The more coffee we drank, the better we skied. Inhibitions vanished.

We stuck poles in at strategic points and made slalom runs, which we raced down, bending between the sticks. Then the long walk up, edging all the way, not the luxury of the chair lift.

As we improved we ventured further afield to bigger hills. By now quite a crowd of us, with children dragging sledges. Life was great. Up on Struie, one of the higher hills, a big cliff had to be avoided. “Remember that on the way down,” said Gordon, then forgot all about it as he dissolved into laughter when my poor husband came to grief with a power pylon. Gordon headed over the cliff in what must have been a world record ski jump and landed quite safely but somewhat shaken.

The men took to skiing at night, by the light of the moon or car headlights. The snow plough driver was expressly forbidden to meet with “that mad lot on the hill,” but he snook off. During the night’s activity he fell, breaking his wrist, It took him over a week before he dared to go to the doctor, in fear and trembling and anticipating divorce proceedings.

However the doctor, being one of “the mad lot” covered for him.

Every day saw me out on the hill by ten o-clock, with my “Canadian boats” on my feet and weekends saw us all heading off in search of the best hill and coming back to a huge feed of chips, egg and beans. Happy days.

One day the phone rang with news that a remote power station, in the hills was to be visited. A snow cat was going up and Harry, the chief engineer, offered us a lift with the promise to make sure the cat created a perfect piste.

He wound up the mountain, sweeping from side to side in great curves, until we reached the station.

.Left to my own devices I set off slowly down the hill. One of those days you dream about, crystal clear air, blue sky and Loch Shin way below me. My breath froze as I breathed out and I descended at my own pace, stem christies controlling my speed.

Just me and an eleven mile run, nothing but the sound of my skis. Snow buntings round me and otters tobogganing on their tummies down to the loch, simply playing. I will never forget that day.

I graduated to short skis and real boots and realised how easy skiing could be. I went up chair lifts in Queenstown and swooshed down the various routes. But nothing has ever surpassed Gordon’s rum coffee, sat on the floor of the hut we called the “club house” after struggling up the hill.

Those were the days!