Skiing Treble Cone

We have only ever skied the Three Valleys in France and so we are curious and a little daunted by the Treble Cone ski fields, leaving our Lake Wanaka apartments, Monday morning. We have chosen TC because it’s described as NZ’s largest ski area and good for intermediate skiers which we believe ourselves to be: hahahaha.

Armed with my new ski boots which haven’t seen my feet since the day I bought them, we begin the twisty mountain drive up to base camp; I sight a bird of prey adjacent to the entrance sign, photogenically consuming road kill like a vulture from a spaghetti Western. Is it an omen I ask myself or is that just a particularly spooky horror film from the 1970’s?

We navigate the hairpin bends and I notice Caitlin’s gaze is glued to the steep fall offs. Before long she is demanding, ‘Slow down Daddy you are driving too fast.’

She doesn’t seem too amused when I devilishly say,

“Wait until it snows.’ The awesome views help to build the excitement.

At the top we shuffle the kids into ski school, watch for awhile to assure ourselves they look happy and then climb into our boots. We ski feverishly but expertly all day long in the sunshine and deep snow ... ah. Alas not, my new boots prove useless as it becomes clear I won’t be able to ski in them; the clue for this is the large heart wrenching sobs as I negotiate the run back down to base.

However, a quick rental later and the spring has once again returned to my step even if the blood still hadn’t made its way past my original boot line. We are now both able to admire Lake Wanaka far below cradled by snow free mountains, a lovely contrast to the crisp white snow at our backs.

My happiness does not last long however as we soon discover the resort to be a little scary, not in an Omen way. It is hard to work out where the runs start and end and the grading system has obviously been done on a different mountain, maybe one on the moon. We find ourselves quickly out of our depths on ungroomed slopes, ending up on steep half pipes I’m sure were built for Olympic snowboarding and from time to time on rocks and grass: they hadn’t had any snow for awhile. I seem to struggle more than Grant who as usual when he is better at me in something seems full of the joys of spring.

‘Oh it’s just like skiing in Scotland’ as he lurches his way down a particularly difficult slope. It is at this point that my fingers begin to inexplicably swell and do not finish until they resemble two packs of Wall’s giant pork sausages; I sadly display them to my husband.

‘Ooh look you’ve got man fingers,’ he laughs as he ricochets off the nearest rock. He is lucky I’m having trouble getting down the slope to ‘join’ him.

Things continue not to go well for me as we attempt the ‘fast ‘chair lift. Unlike France with its helpful traffic lights to tell you when to go or indeed barriers that stop those of us that don’t concentrate on holiday, here you must watch for your moment; then estimate where to stand on a faint red line whose words of warning are blurred under the thick ice.

The result is a spectacular Nil Point as I try to sit on the chair lift and miss, just catching the edge. I immediately imagine my body dangling by my fat sausage fingers from the chair’s restraining bar miles over the slopes and consequently throw myself off to the side somewhat like a an Indiana Jones move. When I sit up, Grant has followed suit leaving me to wonder:

A) Does he think I knew something?

B) Is he trying to steal my limelight?

c) Does he think this is how you ride the lifts NZ style with a ritualised first throw?

Mortified, I attempt standing on the ice and keeping my face out of view, manoeuvre myself back to position. I can’t bring myself to try again for at least another 5 minutes or until all the witnesses have ridden away out of sight.

Sustenance is required. Grant volunteers to fetch food from the only cafe located on the mountainside. As I save our places in the sun on the decking outside he turns,

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ll have the soup of the day.’

‘But you don’t know what it is.’

‘Surprise me.’

I wait nestled in amongst the other skiers and wonder,’ Why are they all so advanced and not just in age but ability too? We have witnessed: people jumping from cliffs, tracking down gullies with small exquisite jump turns , zooming down steep mogul fields and idiots carrying skis miles beyond the end of chair lifts so they can go God knows wear. Where are the frigging beginners, you know, the bunch of gross motor challenged individuals you see with knees stapled together, tottering down slopes as if in heels. Where are they? Even the kids look like Franz bloody Klammer as they fly past me on double tipped skis and I ask G,

‘Is that child wearing a nappy?’

Still there is local wildlife to look at, what the ... that is the fattest pair of parrots I have ever seen. I find out later they are Keas. What are they eating up here - the beginner skiers? As Grant arrives back with my soup of the day, a blood coloured froth he tries to convince me is Beetroot soup, I know deep down they are not eating the cafe food. What are the other extreme skiers eating- oh yes they are attached to I/v drips of adrenaline.

Still the kids are having a great time. Ski school’s so quiet that they’ve had one on one tuition. Caitlin started with two other kids but they were quickly moved up -I think one of them was the Franz Klammer from before and her confidence is a little squashed. Ciara however loves it.

Overnight we have ten centimetres of snow; the area looks even more beautiful for it. Of course the runs are even more difficult and despite my requests to warm up gently on an easy green Grant sets off for an unbashed , unfamiliar slope with a bad name. Let’s just say this long eared white rodent is not wearing a smile. Half way down the slope I switch into fighting mode, bringing up old grievances imagined or real and pelting them like snowballs onto G’s back. I think both of us are relieved to get to the bottom but for different reasons. I refuse at this point to travel any further until we have had hot chocolate, hoping it might loosen some of the tightness in my tired, overwrought and I have now decided ageing body. I have to say that once we had warmed up properly, a few easy runs later, everything is better and we enjoy the day especially as I pass the ‘falling over’ reins to grant who struggles to stay upright in the powder conditions. We giggle and play on the back bowl in deep snow where one twitch sends you in a different direction. We find some reasonable slopes and even drop in on some half pipes. No one is on them again; they have all gone heli-skiing: a helicopter transports you to an isolated mountain with virgin snow that no one in their right mind would ski and picks you up again at the bottom. Helicopter pilot = perfect job for a serial killer with a sense of humour.

By day 3 we are all improving and finding our way around. Ciara does her first green run, Caitlin is parallel turning and we are managing some pretty technical stuff with a smile on our faces. Quite sad that today is our last day of skiing.

We finish up and drive back to Queenstown admiring its Lake Wakapi even more in the sunshine, turquoise waters with real waves – their cause a mystery: this is not a sea fed lake. Bring on Milford Sound tomorrow.