editor’s note: these are a few excerpts from a longer feature article about a recent trip to New Zealand.
Birds of a Feather
With it’s lush greenery, sweeping landscapes and low-key resort scene, all New Zealand needs to break bigger on the international ski scene is a more media coverage, a good snow year… and a few less birds.
Text and photos by Mike Berard
Riding shotgun is an unnerving experience. I’ve never been comfortable with putting my life in someone else’s gloves, especially when that person is driving a right-hand drive spaceship. Sure, ‘Spaceship’ is only a trademarked name for one of thousands of notorious orange rental vans on the narrow roads of New Zealand’s South Island and not an intergalactic vessel. But it is piloted by Kevin Hjertaas and we are driving up one of the country’s many ski-hill access roads. If that doesn’t sound scary, you haven’t driven a New Zealand ski hill access road before… or seen Hjertaas ski. My hands sweat profusely. I dry them on my pants as subtly as possible but the Banff-based ski mountaineer still notices, laughing gleefully. Mine is a valid anxiety, however, with the void below inviting the top-heavy vehicle to plunge down the steep mountainside and bounce off the many switchbacks before coming to rest in the cliché herd of sheep. The road doesn’t help; gravel, pockmarked with potholes and teeming with Kiwis who grew up driving the barrier-less lanes, it seems like a recipe for death down under. Despite my timid nature (read: pussy), I realize the roads are only a warm up for the country’s burly skiing. What have I got myself into?
Meat pies and Speight’s Gold Medal Ale, two icons of Kiwi culture that I felt I already knew intimately despite having never experienced either. Here I am, on TC’s deck at the end of the day enjoying both under the watchful gaze of Keas, beautiful but pesky giant mountain parrots that populate all of NZ’s ski areas. Extremely intelligent, one of the bastards tried to pull the zipper open on my camera bag earlier in the day. When I walked over, it backed off just far enough that I couldn’t kick it, and then taunted me. I’m an animal lover but this bird’s attitude was unacceptable. Like a bad comedy sketch I chased the inquisitive little fuck around the mountaintop, fruitlessly kicking and throwing stuff at him. Now, as I try to enjoy my cold beer and steak and bacon pie, another one (maybe the same one) lingers behind my head, waiting and praying. Who said parrots are charming?
Nutcracker. It sounds painful, and destructive. But the aptly named metal contraption is key to the country’s most unique skiing experience, the Club Field. Trying to explain the “clubbie” to a regular resort skier is like trying to explain proper usage of the word “eh” to an American—impossible. The basic premise involves minimalist surface-lifts servicing ungroomed, barely patrolled ski areas with meager amenities. There are no high-speed quads and better, no shitty skiers. The whole Club Field network breeds strong, dedicated skiers and is a godsend for those with no time to wait in line for Johnny Daypass and his six whiny kids. In fact, it’s for people who don’t like lines at all because there are none. The catch is, you need to be able to ski deep powder and rutted bumps exclusively, two things the club network has in spades. You also have to be extremely fit. Of course, hiking to the lift every morning should cover that for you.
