New Zealand

The view from Treble Cone

Colter Anderson on the Craigieburn tow-rope

The last great powder day with the crew at Craigieburn
Dean, Jeremy, Conor Miller, California Mike, Troy Thompson, Conor Mulroy,
and Colter Anderson

Sundown on the summit ridge of Mount Olympus

Mount Olympus Valley

Conor Miller jumping off the lunch hut

Robin Liston, Conor Miller, and Chris Farrel

Conor Miller and Conor Mulroy

Mount Rolleston from Temple Basin

Colter Anderson at Temple Basin

Conor Mulroy
Colter Anderson

Mount Cook

Craigieburn, Middle Basin ridge



Treble Cone powder day, posing for Colter Anderson's camera

Mount Olympus, the back bowl

California Mike and Conor Mulroy near Mount Cook

Conor Mulroy from the top of Mount Olympus

The Hooker Valley

Craigieburn, Middle Basin Chutes

Conor Mulroy on the back bowl at Mount Olympus

License to Chill

Roxanne just got her thumb crushed on the rope-tow. I couldn't believe that could happen--till I saw the blood. Her thumb got wedged between a nutcracker and a rope that travels at warp speed, and when she came to the first wheel with her thumb still stuck, panic seized her, and the machinery mowed over it, cracking the bone in her thumb.

After seeing that she was receiving medical attention I was in quite a predicament. Should I see how she's doing and be a good friend? I grabbed the rope, locked on, and went for some fresh tracks. I'll see her at lunch. It's not like I could fix her hand anyway.

It was opening day at Broken River Ski Field in New Zealand, and our first encounter with the infamous nutcracker. The nutcracker is the heart and soul of club field skiing, embodying toughness and simplicity by being old-fashioned. This device alone is responsible for keeping the slopes empty, resulting in a skiing experience that rivals heli-skiing.

The nutcracker is connected to a harness and it allows you to hold onto the fast rope tow, pulling you up the mountain. You grab the rope with your inside hand (have a glove protector on so the rope doesn't melt your gloves) and go up with the rope until your grasp is firm. Then, sling the nutcracker around perpendicularly to the rope and hold it closed as you ride uphill. At the end of the ride, simply let go of the nutcracker and you are off.All of the club fields except for Porter Heights operate with the rope tow.

The club fields are mountains with a few rope tows that take you to the top, each run by a club of ski buddies, and there are a handful of them in the center of the South Island. Most have lodging in small huts at the base. The best two club fields are Craigieburn, which has a reputation for being the most difficult mountain in the southern hemisphere, and Mount Olympus, the most remote of the club fields with the fewest skiers and the most powder because it is a south facing ski field.

Both of these have a small amount of skiers and extreme terrain, causing me to ask "why do people fork over $800 for a chopper instead of doing this for $25?" The club fields have been operating for 50 years and are New Zealand's best-kept skiing secret. Armed with a Chill Pass to give me unlimited days at seven club fields, most of which are off SH 73 in Arthur's Pass on the South Island, I was free to spend a season exploring the wild mountains of the Southern Alps, immersing myself in a distinct ski culture that I came to love.

After mastering the nutcracker, these mountains quickly take on a feeling of belonging and homeliness as you get to know the mountain and the ski club that runs it. After skiing Craigieburn a few times I got to know some of the club members and really felt at home there, and I felt that my lift ticket was a contribution to keeping the ski field running. It is easy to quickly get attached to these mountains when there are so few skiers on them, and the ones dedicated to the mountain become your friends.

The season started off with a good deal of excitement to ski new mountains and different terrain. But there was a lot of pain involved too as expected powder days vanished into thin air. And as the slopes were hurting for snow, they were hurting the bases of our skis too. My mates ripped out four edges on that opening day at Broken River. When August came around though, the ski fields got pounded with snow for the rest of the season.

With great snow and a lot of learning about skiing the Kiwi way, the experience shifted from frustration and excitement, to something pure and beautiful, especially at my favorite mountain, Craigieburn.At Craigieburn, there are an endless variety of chutes that funnel into three bowls. My mates and I would explore new chutes and cliffs for the whole season.

It was the best snow in ten years that season, but it came late when people were out of the skiing mode, so we had epic powder days to ourselves almost every weekend from mid-August to mid-October. We jump-turned down 800-foot chutes not much wider than the length of a ski and you had to straight-line the end of them. Or you could rip high-speed turns down the wide and steep couloirs. Some of the chutes I had to stop at the top and ask myself "Is it possible to ski down this?" Many chutes have high walls of snow and are natural half pipes to make bank turns on. And after every run down the Middle Basin, we would all agree that that was the best run of our lives.

When I think back on skiing the club fields of New Zealand, one feeling dominates my mind - heavenly solitude. You can stand on the mountaintop with your mates, look in every direction and not see a single person. And with the skiing all above tree line, you can see the whole mountain and all the fresh tracks to be made every time you go skiing. There are usually only a dozen skiers on the ski field, and you only see them on the rope tow.

Skiing the club fields is like going back in time with modern skis. The places have not changed since their opening, and the mentality, normal for Kiwis but sadly old-fashioned for the States, is that you are on your own so use good judgment. Skiing the club fields is a more natural and therefore more engaging form of skiing, a cross between backcountry and inbounds. Snow conditions vary frequently with the weather. Southerlies bring coldness and good snow. Nor'westers bring heavy wind and wet snow, and sometimes a meter of it. There are no trail signs.

You can get hurt on these mountains if you don't know where you're going, and there are no warning signs either, except the one at the base that tells you the avalanche danger of the day. Some chutes don't have a skiable ending and if you don't stop you'll be picked off the sharp rocks in pieces.

The club fields are completely uncommercialized. There are a couple ski patrollers there for avalanche dangers, but you usually wear avalanche transceivers anyway. The base, which you often have to hike a ways to get to, is a small group of huts for lodging and lift tickets. After a dump of snow, they open an hour or two later due to avalanche testing, and a dozen skiers wait patiently at the bottom.

I have not seen this patience on a powder day anywhere else. In the beginning, I was irritated that they were not opening at the normal time, and I ran to get to the rope tow first when the gate opened. But I calmed down after I realized I was the only one in a rush. There's going to be fresh tracks all day long - all week long actually, and my legs won't last the whole day anyway. With the nutcracker, hiking, and skiing, there's no rest for your legs except for the lunchtime BBQ.

Mount Olympus offers a skiing experience unlike any other. It calls itself, "The Playground of the Gods," and there's a good reason the Gods chose to ski here. It has the best powder in New Zealand, and also perhaps the most character. The access road is dirt and winds around steep mountain shelves and through cattle gates we had to open and close. The ride drags on like this for 45-minutes. At the bottom of the mountain, everyone must radio to the top station, where the car park is, to check if the one lane road is clear to drive up (all the club fields start half-way up the mountain where the best snow conditions are).

Then at the bottom towrope, a ski patroller would get it going for us as we were usually there first thing in the morning, and he would tell us to shut it off if we were the last ones down at the end of the day, ski fields can not get more laid-back. At the end of one day, my mates and I joined the dozen skiers that were on the mountain and went to the top ridge, hauling brewskis for the sunset. As the sun sank into the spectacular Southern Alps, I sat on the ridge with ski patrollers rolling joints, drinking Speight's Ale, and thought this has got to be the coolest place in the world.

It was not the quality of the skiing that I loved the most, but the whole experience that separates the club fields from all the other mountains in the world; the nutcrackers and the 4WD or "chains required" access roads, the charming and unpredictable weather patterns that can get under your skin, and the layback atmosphere.

I also loved the accent and style of the Kiwi skiers, the wide-open mountains that don't get tracked out and ripping turns down them with good mates. I skied with buddies from Jackson Hole and Bozeman. And a ski patroller, after we told him we're from the West and what chute we just skied, said "you guys are cowboys!" and pulled out his fingers like guns in a quick-draw.

And so, on the last day of the season, the best snow year in a decade, three young and wild men stood on the high mountaintop, all seeing the same thing: More mountains in all directions, than we had ever seen before, then, looking down, untouched chutes and a trackless bowl beneath. Then the world becomes heaven as our unmoving skis shift to point themselves downhill, and we are in motion, and we are free.