Sorry for the Group Email

From the almost –laughable insanity of voluntarily jumping from a light aircraft, we went to what we affectionately began to call Jo’s House.

Months ago in London, I had a conversation with a Kiwi co-worker that went approximately like this:

Jo: So, you’re going to Australia?

Me: Yep.

Jo: Are you going to New Zealand as well?

Me: Wasn’t planning on it. Isn’t it all sheep?

Jo: Go on. I’ve got a house you can borrow if you want.

Jo was right. Not just because New Zealand is full of friendly people and stunning to look at, although it’s both, but by the time we reached her house we were desperate. We’d been camping for a month, variously boiling and being bitten enthusiastically by midges in Australia, or worrying about tent leaks and the cold in New Zealand.

We arrived at Jo’s house still shaky from skydiving, and wandered through its rooms in a daze. There were beds! Real beds, not self-inflating mattresses which slowly compress overnight until they’re little more than rubber boards. A fireplace, complete with a shed full of wood outside and firelighters so even an idiot like me could sculpt a roaring blaze. A kitchen that we had all to ourselves. A full-size fridge. And, outside, a field full of quiet sheep and lambs and a railway track that saw two trains per day.

It was splendid, and if Jo is reading this, and I like to think she is, we were hopelessly, awesomely spoiled within five minutes. If we could have got away with squatting we’d still be there.

The best thing about the house, though, was the mountain. Mount Ruapehu (which like many New Zealand names is as fun to say as it is to write) sat less than thirty minutes’ drive from our newly-borrowed driveway, and is one of New Zealand’s best snowboarding and skiing destinations. Certainly the town at the bottom, Ohakune, was full of the trendy, hopelessly fit-looking types I’d only previously encountered in the Gatwick departure lounge en route to the European Alps. Everyone had those peculiar tanlines which suggest they’ve been up a mountain all day wearing ski goggles, but in fact make them look permanently surprised.

“I have to get me one of them,” I thought.

So we booked snowboarding lessons for the next day. Luckily, Jo’s house, besides being fully fitted and stocked with firewood, had a pair of snowboards.

Here’s the first thing you’ll learn about snowboarding: snowboards are different sizes (obvious when you think about it) and apparently shoulder-height is about right for everyone. This means that if a co-worker offers to lend you a board, and you’re a different height, you’ll be hiring one. Even so, a snowboard, plus a pair of boots and two ski-lift passes cost us under NZ$150, which is spectacular value by anyone’s standards.

I didn’t hire goggles, though. Didn’t fancy the surprised panda look.

“Ooh,” our snowboard teacher sucked air through his teeth. “You should get some, really. There’s a risk of permanent retinal damage from looking at the snow.”

It’s true that a snowy mountain is tremendously, searingly bright. I was already squinting. I’m a trooper, though, so we squinted on and got on with the business of looking like prats and falling over a lot.

We actually spent the first hour this way: snowboarding is one of those things where you put in a great deal of effort for ages for no return: no sooner do you stand up than you tip over either forwards or backwards, and getting up again is impossible, because you’ve got a large, heavy plank of wood strapped to your feet. Then, you finally get going, work up some speed, try to make a small, slow, shallow turn that an eight year old would laugh at, and you fall over again, because you saw someone on skis thirty five yards away and became afraid of what might happen if you collided. And, even if you make it to the bottom of the slope without killing anyone, you have to do battle with the pommer. This is the mini-ski-lift thing that, if you’re on skis, fits neatly between your legs and pulls you up the slope.

Or, if you’re on a snowboard, you try to tuck the disc under your armpit, brace for lift-off, and are yanked off your feet and dragged a few yards on your arse. We spent an hour falling off the pommer, snowboarding a few feet, tumbling over, and then repeating.

But – and this was the amazing thing – after an hour and a half, something clicked and suddenly we were turning, making it to the bottom of the slope, and using the pommer to get back to the top without much difficulty. We weren’t particularly efficient, and it’s true to say that everyone, including beatingly-talented four year-olds, were passing us on the way down, but snowboarding suddenly had potential.

The thing is that a snowboard isn’t a stupid plank of wood that you point in one direction and hope for the best with. They’re surprisingly strong, surprisingly flexible, and that flexibility lets you turn in different directions and even, once in a while, stop without collapsing to your knees and being speared in the face by a passing skier.

The first day saw blue skies, packed snow and an incredibly huge number of school-holidaying families. The second day the slopes were nearly deserted, but the extra space came at the price of weather: snow, rain and hail: we saw it all, sometimes all at once. On the plus side, we were definitely improving: we were faster, bored with the beginner slopes and our falls, although less frequently, were at least more spectacular. We even tried one of the runs, which as it turned out was appallingly scary. Imagine, if you will, driving a car along a mountain pass with no barrier on the cliff side. Now imagine that your car has brakes that work fifteen per cent of the time, and that the steering wheel occasionally comes away in your hands, leaving you sailing uncontrollably towards the edge.

That’s what going down a mountain is like when you’re crap at snowboarding.

By the time we got down we were soaked to the skin: waterproof clothes aren’t much good when pack ice keeps getting inside your shirt. Luckily, we had a roaring fire to get back to, and a trip to the South Island to plan.

Dave suggests that fans of good travel blogging have a look at Tom’s excellent and very-funny account of his Californian Adventure, which you can find in instalments here, here and here.