Cardrona winter/summer

WINTER:

The snow has settled on every part of the mountain, even in the smallest of cracks only mice can fit into. The jumps have been etched out of the fresh snow so the pros stay happy and they can train. Like corduroy jeans, all the runs are groomed within an inch of their life. Early morning before the sun rises, while the birds are still sleeping and you’re tucked up in your bed dreaming about a bluebird day, the cat drivers are out there grooming the runs.

To ski corduroy, you’ve got to be up early so you can be on the mountain for first tracks, or it’s all gone by 9/9:30. But don’t worry there’s still fresh powdered waiting for your arrival in secret bowl, Acadia shoots and drift. When the sun hits the fresh snow it looks like diamonds have been placed in the powder by the little snow bunnies. You don’t see the snow bunnies, but you see their footprints making little markings in the fresh snow.

Cars squeezing their way into the first row of the top car park like a game of Tetris. The rush of cool air hits your face as you swing the car door open. Once that door opens, the adrenalin starts pumping and the routine begins: into the boot of the car, shoes off, boots on, jacket shrugged on, neck warmer pulled down and under the layers of thermals, zip jacket making sure no hair gets caught, beanie carefully placed on, goggles extracted and tightened to fit over the beanie. All the dads you can see hanging onto the side of the cars like Tarzans reaching for the skis in the racks, while the mums are taking on the task of wrangling the smaller children.

Merging like zippers you join the flow of everyone walking the runway to the courtyard to drop off their skis. With the skis dropped off, you tackle the task of finding a spot for your bag under the benches outside the main cafe. Diving into your bag grabbing your gloves out, unclipping your helmet off the side of your bag raring to go. On the walk to WhiteStar drop off you hear the squeaky sounds of the snow under your boots and the swish of your ski pants rubbing together. Dodging the learners coming down McDougalls trying to not hit them with the skis on your shoulder. In one quick movement, you throw your skis splitting them when they first touch the ground letting gravity pull them onto the slopes. You take your first push with your pole and you’re off slowly down the first part of the run, making sure to give enough space not to hit anyone. You take your first carve to the right, leaning into it, to make a nice and defined cut in the groomed snow. The noise you can hear from the bindings is almost a little squeak from a small animal.

Near the bottom of the run, you see the lift queue that you thought was small isn’t as small as you wanted it to be. The lift line is as long as the lift itself. You can hear the small buzz of sounds from the lifties music playing to keep everyone happy and occupied while we stand there like soldiers waiting to be called out. You join the singles lane halfway up the curve, the line looking like a human snake. The queue is much busier than expected, meaning that instead of going straight through like intended everyone is standing still like statues. Overhearing the children in the queue complaining that their legs hurt from standing up for more than 5 minutes makes you want to get on the lift even more than usual. The sound of the lifties voice calling “4 singles” snaps you out of the mad state you are in, getting a warm exciting feeling that it’s your turn to head onto the lift. The beep of the scanners sounding like someone has just tapped the keys of an electric keyboard, the lifties music getting louder as you get closer to the actual chair.

The top is in sight and you’re ready to go and all of a sudden you stop and swing forwards and back. You let out a silent yelp of anger as you are now stuck; stationary; not going anywhere. The only thing to do is to watch the athletes ski Antlers Alley – The park where the world class skiers go to train, the rails looking like liquorice in the chopped up snow. The kickers are as tall the chairlift making the athletes look like they are flying off the whale tail, throwing an intricate trick. When they land you can hear their screams of joy from landing that trick. Sitting on the chairlift like its the couch at home and you are watching these athletes on TV, you quickly snap out of it as the chairlift thrusts you forward restricting you from watching the athlete land the trick.

You read the sign “Tips Up”, so you do as you are instructed. Shuffling forward on the seat like you are trying to jump off the chair, gripping your poles either side of you, getting ready to push off and up out of your seated position. Your skis hitting the take off ramp doing the little shuffle motion like you’re on the front step of the door, wiping your feet.

While looking around, you see a ski instructor pointing their pole making a suggestion of where the ski school should ski. While in that daze of looking over at the ski group you hear the yells of your mates telling you to catch up as they have left you behind. Quickly jumping into that ice skating motion, every skier does when they are abandoned. The first rush of wind goes into your armpit vents giving a quick, cold shiver, the bottom lip does that twitchy thing when you can see the run that you are about to drop into. You put your skis over the ledge, getting sprayed with the top snow from your friends doing a hockey stop. You eye up the line of the powdered path you’re going to take, the path looking like a bowl of icing sugar. The top layer of powdered snow dusts off as the wind comes turning into a little tornado. The first drop in, you sink into the deep thick snow making it hard to turn. Legs are starting to burn and your quads feeling like they’re on fire. Every time you go for a turn, that leg really feels it. Like little fire ants crawling on your legs starting to make it impossible to keep going down the killer run. Looking around the suns out and blue skies all around. The sky has a baby blue tinge to it only when you have your goggles on. When they come off its much deeper almost like the ocean. The sun reflects off the snow making it blinding to the naked eye. You feel the sun heating up the skin under the goggles knowing you’ll burn. That run will keep playing in your mind for a long time even when you’re sleeping.

SUMMER

The drive up the mountain road makes it hard to see where you’re actually going as the dust from the road swarms the car. When you first step out, it’s like you’re in a dust storm with the dust going everywhere in the car, up your nose, through your hair and into your eyes. You look up at the hill seeing all the tussocks and dirt tracks trying to envision it as it was last time skiing here. You pop out of the car heading to the back to grab your bikes off the rack. Seeing all the nice flashy bikes everyone has, gleaming in the sunlight making them look all sparkly and new. You start to feel butterflies in your tummy as the nerves are starting to get the best of you. Your knees getting weaker and weaker as you start to see how steep all the tracks are and how fast everyone is going down them, like they’re on a formula one track.

Looking up at the hill you see the intricate trails all carved out of the loose dirt and tussock mix, the trails looking like small roads that cars could drive on. The tracks looking like a luge track you could race down in the carts, the way it’s all set out it’s all got clean cut edges and gutters. The tussocks making a thick blanket covering as far as the eye can see, making the tracks look like a fresh line someone has just skied if it were snow. The tussocks blow in the wind sounding like the howl of a wolf in the distance. Fences covered so thick with dust you could draw on there and it would show until the next rider sprays it with dust.

You can hear the faint grunts the bikers make when they’re pushing themselves to the next extreme. Sounding like angry monsters in the wild. When the riders come off the trails you see all their nice new bikes coming into the racks, all coated in a layer of dirt and dust, not just the bike the riders as well. Looking down the valley the clouds are starting to roll in like an ocean with a new set of waves crashing onto the beach. The heavens start to open, a spit of rain drops on the dry crusty ground and soaks it all up. One drop falls, then the next, then the next, until it starts to bucket down with rain getting everything soggy. You see the mass of riders coming out from the cafe racing to get their helmet and gloves before they get saturated with rain.

The raindrops are like little pellets, you can see the droplets of rain rebounding off the benches in the courtyard, making mini lakes in the indents and grooves in the wooden tabletop. Looking at the top of the hill you spot little waterfalls starting to form, dripping off the bottom of the boulders. The dirt piling up around the skirtings of the main tower turning into a clay like form only the rats could play with. The dirt has a beige tinge to it now, turning into a dark brown like the colour of chocolate. The nice and firm tracks now turning to slush and starting to slip every time a rider turns a corner or brakes quickly. It tears up the track making holes and taking away the unevenness of the track.

After the day is done and dusted your heart can finally go back to a normal rhythm. Next time you return it will have all changed to snow covered mountain caps and not a dusty tussock in sight.