There’s a magic about snow

Ispent the first 15 years of my life entirely ignorant of the joys of snow. Growing up in snow-deprived Gisborne and Auckland, trips to the slopes were a luxury my family couldn’t afford. For my sister and me, the July school holidays were about trying to keep ourselves entertained in the rain.

I would listen with envy to friends’ tales of weekends at Ruapehu, and winter breaks in Queenstown, but consoled myself with the thought that I’d probably hate it there. Even if I didn’t break a bone or two, I would surely either freeze my ass off or bruise it severely from falling on it.

I saw snow for the first time when my family moved to England, and it still ranks among the most memorable moments of my life.

My mates and I were walking back to school from a local fish and chip shop when semi-frozen water suddenly started to fall from the sky. It was more sleet than snow, but I was so entranced I dropped my battered sausages on the wet ground. I may have been standing outside a budget chemist on a dreary middle England high street, but I felt like I’d been teleported to the set of While You Were Sleeping (my favourite snowy movie at the time).

I soon tired of the snow after it settled, turned to brown sludge under muddy boots and tyres, and sent me sliding every time I stepped outside.

But I could no longer deny that it was as magical as my old mates had made out. My new schoolmates could have their trips to Spain. I was going to get myself to the ski slopes. One day.

More than 20 years later, I’m still working on that.

I have seen a fair bit of snow in that time. It froze my face on bike rides to and from work in London for several winters, and disintegrated my faux leather boots when I found myself up to my thighs in it on a trip to Swedish Lapland.

The latter was the proverbial winter wonderland brought to life. Even in the middle of spring, there was so much snow my rellies’ outdoor furniture was buried by it, and they got around on snowmobiles and went for walks in pine forests where wild reindeer ran free.

The cost of ski passes and hiring gear, and an inability to fit snow chains to a car, has prevented me from hitting the slopes to date, along with the suspicion that, as a notorious klutz, I would, at the very least, injure my pride.

I bit the bullet and booked a snowshoeing session on a trip to Wa¯ naka last year, but the snow failed to show up on time so it was cancelled.

But, like Pamela Wade, who wrote this week’s cover story on pages 34-35, I have learnt you don’t have to ski or snowboard to have fun in the snow. She has discovered snowshoeing and yoonering.

I discovered alpine hiking when I joined the wrong group in California’s Yosemite National Park one day, and found myself trekking through snowy mountains covered in bear tracks in shorts. I felt like I was in a scene from The Revenant at the time but, looking back, it was one hell of an adventure.

I guess the moral of my ramblings is that you’re never too old or poor to discover the joys of snow. Sometimes just seeing it is enough to thrill. And if you’re stuck somewhere snow-deprived, there’s always While You Were Sleeping.