On the eve of the NSW winter school holidays I smile with a nostalgic pang as I think about what we would have been up to at this very time in the years growing up. For the winter holidays meant one thing and one thing only – going to the snow with Dad.
Mum didn’t fancy the cold, so it was just Dad and the girls for one magical week running amok at Perisher Smiggins . We didn’t have to make our beds, we could stay up all night (although we were way too exhausted anyway), gallivant around 1,000 hectares unsupervised, and as Dad so proudly declared in his speech at my wedding recently, he didn’t care if we changed our undies or not. If that’s what we wanted.
Dad had the plan down pat. We had our hire gear fitted a few weeks prior at Inski Newcastle West where the happy buzz began. It was torture in the days that followed with the agonising wait for the afternoon when we’d be pulled out of school early to beat the traffic through Sydney. Along the way we’d feel the windows with the back of our hands, anticipating the drop in temperature with glee.
The drive was a long 8 hours with little relief from the radio, Dad would blare the Friday night footy to Canberra then it was the AM radio quiz all the way to Cooma. We’d bunk there for the night, and wake up at first light, bursting with excitement on the last leg of the jouney. Through Jindabyne we’d be bouncing around the car, and by the time we were on the Ski Tube up the mountain we’d be uncontrollably jumping out of our skins. Emerging from the station, our elation peaked at the sight of Mount Perisher, beaming down at us like a grandmother with open arms.
It was never both my sisters and me on the trip at once, one or the other couldn’t come along being either too young or becoming too old. But as the middle child I was privileged by default to accompany Dad every time, going through these rituals at least 12 times.
Our home away from home was the Oldina Ski club . With room for only 14 people at once, every season we made (what we believed at the time to be) life long buddies with every guest staying that week. There was no TV but we hardly realised. We made snow men and ice castles together, played endless hours of pool and became comrades in war ie. snow ball battles with the kids at the lodge next door. There was a live in chef who fed us up with all the delicious sustenance required for a day on the slopes, and who picked up our skis for us at the end of the day (if you were late, it was a loooong, painful walk carrying ski gear uphill to the lodge. Picture lots of laying in the snow overcome with exhaustion).
View of Mt Perisher from my bed
Snowboards were hardly invented when we started out so skiing it was. And skiing it has remained.
The first few trips were a chilly blur of falling off t-bars, bum-sliding down Happy Valley, snow plowing, stacking it on ice, taking wrong turns ending up bogged in deep snow between the trees, and crashing into lift queues with the fall only broken by clutching onto a stranger, usually bringing them down with you. Dad decided to put us in ski school. Before too long we were really skiing, pole plants and all, jumping off rocks and tackling moguls. My crowing moment was winning the slalom race in my ski class. I had no style and the track was a sheet of ice, but I slid like the wind and won. I have a badge to prove it.
A typical day started with a big breaky looking out over the mountains, listening to the ski report on Snowy Mountains FM. We’d venture out with a warm up run on front valley before heading up the Quad chair to mid station. Then depending on the conditions we’d take it back up, all the way to the top and head over to Mount Perisher. Or if it was a bumper season we’d traverse over to Pretty Valley and all the way to Blue Cow or Guthega. We felt like pioneers.
On a sunny day we’d ski with our jackets open, feeling free as birds hurtling down the hill. The sight of a sibling stacking it so bad, leaving a trail of skis and stocks behind them up the mountain – priceless. Lunch was usually spent at the halfway house for hot chips & gravy washed down with hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a Mars bar for the road.
Looking down Front Valley, Perisher
A trip to the snow is like no other. There are sounds, smells and experiences that you don’t get in everyday life. The soft crackling noise of snow on the roof melting in the morning sun, sliding off with a thump into the mounds of white below. The distant growl of the over snow tractors and the smell of ski-do exhaust. The hum of the chair lift station and the scent of old suncream in your ski jacket. The strange funk of sweaty snow gear & ski wax in the drying room and mastering the knack of walking robot like in hard plastic ski boots on slippery surfaces without falling over.
I’m certain that my love for the natural outdoors stems from these glory days at Perisher. Magical moments of waking up to a white blanketed world from an overnight dump of snow. Skiing so fast it felt like flying. The silence of snow falling. Seeing the most magnificent Australian landscapes only visible from a chair lift.
I wouldn’t swap these memories for the world. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that the Australian Alps will to be the first areas effected by climate change, and it’s a tragic notion that generations after us might not experience what we did. At times when I feel like a crazy individual doing everything I can to help the environment, I think back to these brilliant times and remember there’s a place worth fighting for.
Fun times with the extended family. Is that uncle Russ looking like a bank robber?
Calling on contributors... do you have a tale to tell or photography of urban life inspired by nature? Visit Cohabitaire
On the eve of the NSW winter school holidays I smile with a nostalgic pang as I think about what we would have been up to at this very time in the years growing up. For the winter holidays meant one thing and one thing only – going to the snow with Dad.
Mum didn’t fancy the cold, so it was just Dad and the girls for one magical week running amok at Perisher Smiggins . We didn’t have to make our beds, we could stay up all night (although we were way too exhausted anyway), gallivant around 1,000 hectares unsupervised, and as Dad so proudly declared in his speech at my wedding recently, he didn’t care if we changed our undies or not. If that’s what we wanted.
Dad had the plan down pat. We had our hire gear fitted a few weeks prior at Inski Newcastle West where the happy buzz began. It was torture in the days that followed with the agonising wait for the afternoon when we’d be pulled out of school early to beat the traffic through Sydney. Along the way we’d feel the windows with the back of our hands, anticipating the drop in temperature with glee.
The drive was a long 8 hours with little relief from the radio, Dad would blare the Friday night footy to Canberra then it was the AM radio quiz all the way to Cooma. We’d bunk there for the night, and wake up at first light, bursting with excitement on the last leg of the jouney. Through Jindabyne we’d be bouncing around the car, and by the time we were on the Ski Tube up the mountain we’d be uncontrollably jumping out of our skins. Emerging from the station, our elation peaked at the sight of Mount Perisher, beaming down at us like a grandmother with open arms.
It was never both my sisters and me on the trip at once, one or the other couldn’t come along being either too young or becoming too old. But as the middle child I was privileged by default to accompany Dad every time, going through these rituals at least 12 times.
Our home away from home was the Oldina Ski club . With room for only 14 people at once, every season we made (what we believed at the time to be) life long buddies with every guest staying that week. There was no TV but we hardly realised. We made snow men and ice castles together, played endless hours of pool and became comrades in war ie. snow ball battles with the kids at the lodge next door. There was a live in chef who fed us up with all the delicious sustenance required for a day on the slopes, and who picked up our skis for us at the end of the day (if you were late, it was a loooong, painful walk carrying ski gear uphill to the lodge. Picture lots of laying in the snow overcome with exhaustion).
View of Mt Perisher from my bed
Snowboards were hardly invented when we started out so skiing it was. And skiing it has remained.
The first few trips were a chilly blur of falling off t-bars, bum-sliding down Happy Valley, snow plowing, stacking it on ice, taking wrong turns ending up bogged in deep snow between the trees, and crashing into lift queues with the fall only broken by clutching onto a stranger, usually bringing them down with you. Dad decided to put us in ski school. Before too long we were really skiing, pole plants and all, jumping off rocks and tackling moguls. My crowing moment was winning the slalom race in my ski class. I had no style and the track was a sheet of ice, but I slid like the wind and won. I have a badge to prove it.
A typical day started with a big breaky looking out over the mountains, listening to the ski report on Snowy Mountains FM. We’d venture out with a warm up run on front valley before heading up the Quad chair to mid station. Then depending on the conditions we’d take it back up, all the way to the top and head over to Mount Perisher. Or if it was a bumper season we’d traverse over to Pretty Valley and all the way to Blue Cow or Guthega. We felt like pioneers.
On a sunny day we’d ski with our jackets open, feeling free as birds hurtling down the hill. The sight of a sibling stacking it so bad, leaving a trail of skis and stocks behind them up the mountain – priceless. Lunch was usually spent at the halfway house for hot chips & gravy washed down with hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a Mars bar for the road.
Looking down Front Valley, Perisher
A trip to the snow is like no other. There are sounds, smells and experiences that you don’t get in everyday life. The soft crackling noise of snow on the roof melting in the morning sun, sliding off with a thump into the mounds of white below. The distant growl of the over snow tractors and the smell of ski-do exhaust. The hum of the chair lift station and the scent of old suncream in your ski jacket. The strange funk of sweaty snow gear & ski wax in the drying room and mastering the knack of walking robot like in hard plastic ski boots on slippery surfaces without falling over.
I’m certain that my love for the natural outdoors stems from these glory days at Perisher. Magical moments of waking up to a white blanketed world from an overnight dump of snow. Skiing so fast it felt like flying. The silence of snow falling. Seeing the most magnificent Australian landscapes only visible from a chair lift.
I wouldn’t swap these memories for the world. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that the Australian Alps will to be the first areas effected by climate change, and it’s a tragic notion that generations after us might not experience what we did. At times when I feel like a crazy individual doing everything I can to help the environment, I think back to these brilliant times and remember there’s a place worth fighting for.
Fun times with the extended family. Is that uncle Russ looking like a bank robber?
Calling on contributors... do you have a tale to tell or photography of urban life inspired by nature? Visit Cohabitaire