After a week’s skiing in the South Island and a long weekend
in the North Island we have truly experienced NZ skiing albeit in almost
perfect weather conditions. With blissful ignorance we threw ourselves into my first and
Kate’s second experience of NZ skiing, by booking ourselves into a weekend at
the aptly named Broken River, near Christchurch. You would think that a name
like Broken River would raise questions as to how the name came about, but no,
a weekend of full board and lodging up a mountain would appear to be a no
brainer (awful turn of phrase but sums up the situation well).
Small alarm bells starting ringing when during the booking
process you had to confirm that you were happy to undertake a few chores in the
chalet “to keep the cost down”. No problem, I live with a doctor and therefore
have quickly learnt to do the chores. Well having booked the skiing, Kate and I
returned to our respective work places to crow about our forthcoming skiing.
Without exception on hearing of our skiing venue the reaction was “it’s not
quite like what you would be used to! Expect it to be hard”.
In the week leading up to our skiing, New Zealand
experienced its coldest winter blast for 40 years, resulting in snowflakes
falling in Auckland causing gridlock, not as a result of snow on the road, but
drivers stopping to stare and attempt to catch snow (later classified as
grapple a hail snow composition). While Auckland had only half an hour of snow,
the South Island was properly hit, with Christchurch airport closed and the
place at a standstill. So when the hire
company rang to say they were out of 4 x 4’s and would we mind a normal estate
car with chains, the apprehension of tackling a snowy mountain road increased.
After a short lesson on how to put on a snow chain on a
standalone tyre at waist height in a warm hire car reception, we set out for
our overnight stay at the base of the mountain. After a Sharpie style early
morning start (10 o’clock after a cooked breakfast), we drove up the Arthur’s
Pass road and into the mountains. At the turnoff for the ski field we found a
number of cars whose drivers where grappling with their snow chains. After a
lesson in putting them on I backed myself and so challenged Kate to a snow
chain race. Now parts of the snow chain are colour coordinated to make matters
easier, but still the chains had an uncanny knack of behaving like fishing line
and no matter what, ending up in a solid mass of tangled chain. A triumphant cry
from Kate saw her complete her side with me still no closer to figuring out how
to get this mass of tangled iron around the tyre. With appropriate grace, I
accepted her offer of help.
The road up was a stunning winter wonderland with over a
foot of snow on either side and no sight of any tarmac or grit. However the
little Toyota estate, complete with chains was coping with the hair pin bends
and steep climb like a seasoned mountain goat. The same could not be said of
the campervan we were following which after much wheel spinning shed its chains
and closed the road temporarily before being unceremoniously pulled to one side
by a Land Rover.
The approach to the “resort” was via a passenger operated train.
Open lift would be a more appropriate description, as I nervously eyed the
manual emergency break, wondering if I would have the presence of mind to
activate it while plummeting to earth at an ever accelerating speed.
On arrival we dumped our bags at the chalet and headed to
the lift office to purchase a ticket. The ticket part was normal, the leather
belt, leather glove cover and strange metal device that came with the ticket,
was not. After a ten minute hike we
reached the first lift. About ten people were standing around it looking
apprehensively at a circular rope that was moving with some speed (later found
to be 4m per second).
The method for getting on was to put the leather glove on
one hand to protect your ski gloves and hold the metal device, or nutcracker,
in the other. To get on you gripped the tow rope until you were up to speed and
then flipped he nutcracker (which is just a big version of its namesake) around
the rope before letting go with the leathered glove hand. While sounding
straightforward enough, the process must be completed before the first pulley
some 20 metres away or around 8 seconds away, as you must have released your
gloved hand before it gets mashed by the steel pulley holding the rope. If
successful the metal nutcracker takes the full whack of the pulley and on you
proceed to the next pulley and so on. The trick with pulleys is to aim straight
for them moving your body out of the way at the last second to avoid pulling
the rope off the pulley and making it more difficult for the following skier.
Those lucky enough to get to the top in one piece, release
the nutcracker and ski off to an almost empty ski field with everyone else
either at the bottom vainly trying to get on, or half way down either having
given up the struggle to hold on or having been taken out by a pulley or
another skier falling ahead of them.
Once the tow rope is mastered through a combination of cool
head and good technique, Broken River was an awesome ski venue, with two vast
ski anywhere bowls that returned you via a traverse to the bottom of the lift
system. The views of endless mountains provided a stunning backdrop to good
quality almost back country powder skiing.
Club skiing is highly recommended for those who like their
skiing a little less regulated and who are prepared to work a little harder to
get to it! It does though help to be fit and have a good harness!
