A New Zealand ski snafu

Happy Birthday, Mom!

I know in the states it’s still Wednesday, August 11th, but here in the future (a.k.a. across the international date line) it’s August 12th—Mom’s birthday! What better gift could you imagine, than getting wished happy birthday on the Internet’s most up-and-coming blog sensation? I can’t think of anything more exciting or cost effective…

Just kidding, Mom ☺

Life in New Zealand has been pretty ridiculously awesome since my last post. The verdict still holds that it’s an overall more fun place to be than the Cook Islands. Life without massive amounts of vomit…and other bodily functions not worth mentioning here…is a life worth living. Of course, now that I’ve typed that, Food Poisoning is out there thinking—Shambeau, you sucker! Strike again, I shall—and when you least expect it.

To him I say: Hey Food Poisoning, I dig your Yoda-speak, but please no more torture. I don’t enjoy calling the dinosaurs.

Side note: That’s what Alice dubbed the act of vomiting when we were roommates. Apparently when I hurl, it sounds similar to what we’d imagine is a dinosaur roar. I can only hope it wasn’t a T-Rex howl, but rather a kind and gentle Brontosaurus wail. Am I still talking about vomiting? Er…

New Zealand! Since my last post, we’ve traveled to the South Island, where the weather is much colder (winter in August—weird!) and the landscape is absolutely STUNNING. We’re talking picturesque, snow-topped mountains with sheep-filled valleys below for miles and miles. Did you know that in New Zealand, there’s an average of 4 sheep for every 1 human? True story. Top that off with the blue skies we’ve had for the past few days, and you’ve got scenery that continually takes my breath away.

We’ve been staying in a teensy tiny town called Arthur’s Pass for the past three nights. And by “we”, did I mention our party of two has increased by three?

Oh it has. Three BOYS.

For the next two weeks, Sean is guiding three American high school students through the South Island through his business, Powder Lines. Aside from snowboarding as often as possible, Sean teaches them things like how to test for possibilities of an avalanche, how to act in an avalanche as well as search and rescue techniques using avalanche beacons—and (shameless plug) so much more!

In a nutshell, it’s four extremely talented snowboarders, and me. What does this mean for yours truly? I travel with them, skiing when I see fit, and do my thing when I want. Of course, our cabin’s kitchen is a little more cluttered than I’d like, and “boy” has exploded in our common space, but hey—they’re having fun and they’re all good kids. I just make my neat and tidy girl space in a corner of the room and relish the alone time on the days they head out without me. New Zealand is my oyster!

Here’s the view from the mini backpacking adventure I took a few days ago:

Of course, my camera died about halfway up, so I have photos and video save on my Blackberry from even higher up, which I can’t figure out how to transfer to my computer without phone service. Those will have to wait. Until I figure that out, you’ll have to enjoy this lovely self-portrait, taken halfway up:

Yesterday, I chose to ski. We all loaded up our gear and headed to Mt. Cheesman, which is considered the easiest of all the hills in the area we’re staying. Of course, the boys decided to head straight to the top, and I followed because I was in my own delusional world thinking my skiing skills are 10 times what they are. On the upside, we took some great photos at the top of the mountain.

Aren’t they just precious?

When they all started hiking up to an even higher point, it was time for me to ski down. I should know by now to start simple when I first hit the hill.

The difference between these New Zealand ski hills out in the boonies like Cheeseman, and the big resorts hills? There’s an underlying vibe I can only describe as you’re on your own. If you screw up, it’ your own darn fault and it probably sucks to be you.

Also, they don’t “do” maps. Or posted signs to mark the green circle, blue square and black diamond runs, for that matter.

You look at the large wooden sign at the end of the T-bar lift with a janky map of routes, and you must memorize where they are and then apply that memory to the hill. Because every path looks the same—white snow with ski tracks all over it—and my short terms memory has the ability to eject information as soon as I receive it (especially the important stuff), the whole experience was a Mollie Shambeau Show blog post waiting to happen.

Voila:

So what did I do? I found a little girl—probably about 8 years old—and followed her. She must be going on the easy route, right? That worked for about 2 minutes, until I started feeling independent. Oh-how I wish I had stuck with the third grader! I went over a ridge, which I assumed would lead me to a simple way to the bottom.

Of course, my “easy route” took me almost to the edge of the ski hill, with no way down unless I felt like skiing over a steep, rocky ledge—probably 10 feet above the easy route. The worst part was I could SEE where I needed to be, but couldn’t get there. Granted, it’s not like skiers had never skied where I was. There were tons of tracks, and I kept encouraging myself—you can do this, Mollie! You are AWESOME.

Yep, a little less awesome than I’d originally thought. Finally, my common sense rolled over, opened its eyes and decided to pipe up when it realized what a pickle I’d gotten myself into.

The only option I could see at that point was hiking back to where I’d last seen my little 8-year-old girl (without that being as creepy as it sounds). Shouldn’t be too difficult.

Wrong.

Do you know that when you’re not wearing skis, your boots easily sink up to your knees in snow? Crazy the way that works—it’s the SKIS that keep you up! (Duh.) And I wasn’t able to get my skis back on, as I was on a hill, and you need flat ground to get them back on. Plus, hiking uphill in skis is an equation for skiing down backwards (at least when I’m involved). So for 30 minutes, I would walk a few steps up, lugging my equipment, and then sink into the snow. Walk, walk, sink. Walk, walk, sink. It was 30 degrees, windy, and I was sweating like a pig. Would you expect anything less?

I made it up to said ledge and plopped myself down to take in the view—gorgeous, as usual.

Eventually, Sean and the boys found me (face BEET red from windburn and physical exhaustion, sitting on the hill still not wearing my skis) and Sean goes, “Is everything OK?” Let me think about that…

Uh, no.

After he’d helped me get my life together and find the REAL easy route down, I took a breather, and just when I thought I’d cross skiing off my list of extra-curricular activities, my common sense slapped me across the face and scolded me, “Buck up, camper.”

I headed right back up the T-bar and had a fantastic afternoon of skiing. Seriously—great snow, great weather and great runs. Er, run—singular. I found one I liked and rode it the whole afternoon for fear of getting lost again. BUT I DID IT.

Moral of the story, 8-year-olds are smart, and I still love New Zealand!