Tasman Glacier is one woman's dream skiing

By JUDITH DOYLE

We set out to ski a dream - a dream of long-standing. Ruapehu skiers from way back, we had talked about skiing the Tasman Glacier. We wanted to experience its wilderness, see its ice falls, photograph the blue crevasses and the spectacular pinnacles.

We would fantasise about its 10km slopes when Turoa was closed by poor weather and we had time on our hands. But that time was becoming increasingly precious, with us being skiers of a mature age group and getting more mature all the time.

As I'd become eligible for a senior ski lift pass (at least at South Island skifields, the North's are less generous) we decide it is time to act. So Sally, Tricia and myself book with the Alpine Guides to ski the Tasman Glacier. This involves a ski plane from Mt Cook airport to the top of the glacier; two guided ski runs and a gourmet lunch on the snow. Masochism for some - bliss for skiers.

As we cross the Cook Strait dramatic storm warnings are ringing in our ears. Driving in pouring rain down State Highway 1 we hear flood warnings on the car radio. "The worst flooding in Canterbury for years ... houses flooded ... stock endangered." With immaculate timing we had chosen Canterbury's year of the floods.

Just south of Kaikoura we hit the floodwaters - stretches of it, either side of the road. Near Cheviot, six sodden sheep squash together, marooned on a pocket handkerchief of land.

Further south, a swirling brown torrent attacks the bridge over the Hurunui River as we cross gingerly. At Saltwater Creek, another sea of water, we join the single lane of cars crawling along the crown of the road.

From the radio come pleas for motorists to stay off the roads in Canterbury but we have waited a long time to ski our dream and our booking is for the following day. At the Selwyn River, on the outskirts of Christchurch, we are finally turned back by police. No detour possible, they say, and the roads nearer Mt Cook are blocked by snow anyway. So we clock into the nearest motel.

Next day on the radio: "Christchurch is isolated. All routes north and south are blocked." We drive to the Selwyn River and, at last, manage to get through, driving in single file and at snail's pace through the water.

From Alpine Guides comes a message on the mobile that the Tasman Glacier has been skied without us on the Sunday but our booking will be held over for next day.

We cheer ourselves up with an afternoon's skiing at the lovely little family field of Mt Dobson, near Fairlie. The mountain road is described in the brochure as "arguably the easiest alpine road in New Zealand" - the "arguably" is appropriate, given the sharp zig-zags of the dirt-and-loose-metal road.

Chains are needed, and with Sally and Trish dab hands at the art of putting chains on the tyres I stand by trying to look useful. "We got our chains on more smartly than those youngsters," Sally says as we clank on up the hill leaving skiers behind us still struggling with theirs.

The only hazard on the mountain road turns out to be a horse that has exchanged his snowy paddock for the warmer dirt road and isn't going to move for anyone. Sally does a gentle snowplough turn round his flanks and drives on.

Dobson, like all the Canterbury skifields, has received over a metre of new snow - rain further down is snow up here - and everything sparkles, as if the storm had washed the world.

Phoning Alpine Guides, back at Twizel, we are told that the snow arrived with a high wind which whipped it into ridges, making it too rough for the ski plane to land without damaging the undercarriage.

We cheer ourselves this time by skiing Treble Cone, where the road round Lake Wanaka, the mountain road and the skifield are all stunningly beautiful. Lake Wanaka, bluest-blue in its frame of snow, is visible below you, as you ski. From the top of the highest ski lift especially, the panorama makes you catch your breath.

I'm nervous of this skifield - Tremble Cone I call it - as it's the favourite of my eldest son, a gung-ho skier, and even he says it's steep. (The Austrian ski team train here in the northern summer and that's no comfort either).

But the sky is blue, the snow squeaks as we ski and the recent snowfall has rejuvenated the ski runs and made magic of the landscape. At the end of the day we are jubilant. Until, that is, we hear from Alpine Guides: no change. Corrugated snow on the landing area still makes it dangerous for the ski plane to land. An inspection flight is planned tomorrow to examine the landing area more closely.

Our next "comfort ski" is Cardrona Skifield, which has a wide ski area. No T-bars to tire the legs, but three four- and six-person chairlifts. Some skiers complain about the slow speed of these chairlifts, but they give a good long rest to older muscles.

Skiing here is good for bruised egos - easy snow, easy slopes. You can imagine you might actually be mastering this maddening sport.

On such a day, the bright ski outfits of the skiers make a shifting mosaic in front of Cardrona's base building. Not the usual utilitarian ski building, this, it has a distinctive clock tower and an archway on to the ski runs, where a musician is playing an electric guitar. In the crisp air, tiny snowflakes glint and glitter against the sun.

The cold temperature keeps the snow crisp and the face and fingers icy. We return down the mountain road with that feeling of exhausted achievement that's special to skiing and decide not to break the mood by phoning Alpine Guides.

Instead we make a visit next day to Mt Cook to front up, find out what options are available and hear what other weather oddities that inspection flight has discovered. It's a stunning drive - the green of the lakes seems to deepen against the snowy surrounds. Mt Cook, Mt Tasman and a bevy of other peaks appear, outlined against a sky that is impossibly blue.

Mt Cook appears to be playing host to the population of Tokyo - it's a week-long national holiday in Japan apparently. With snow on trees and roofs and banked up by the road, Mt Cook Village looks like a Northern Hemisphere Christmas card.

Alpine Guides tell us that its inspection flight has revealed that plane landings are possible on the upper Tasman but not on the lower, which is still too rough. Advanced skiers could be dropped on the upper Tasman, cross to the Murchison Glacier and ski down a 40 deg angle on a crusty surface.

We decline in the interests of survival (we know our limitations) and head, next day, for our fourth skifield - at Ohau in the Mackenzie country. This lifts our spirits again, even though we seem to have jinxed the Tasman Glacier.

Ohau is another skifield in a magnificent setting - Lake Ohau with its curving foreshore is a stunning blue backdrop. It's a small field, though, with a restricted number of fairly crowded runs. Trish hurts a knee here and we rest and recuperate in the Day Lodge, a small but pleasant building made of New Zealand oregon.

From Alpine Guides comes the information that the snowfall needed to level the landing strip on the glacier is not expected for a few days but there's hope that a front could bring the much-needed snow after that.

We are less hopeful of this outcome and decide not to stay locally but to drive to Queenstown and ski Coronet Peak the next day. With cafe, restaurant, creche, shop and ski facilities, it is New Zealand's most developed skifield.

But we find the ski slopes are not well groomed and the runs are uncomfortably crowded. Snowboarders hurl down the slopes, the only warning you get being a threatening rumble behind you. Think skateboarders on steep crowded city pavements and you get the picture.

The Japanese who are not at Mt Cook, are here, many in yellow and black ski outfits which must be the current fashion back home. Many Australian skiers are here too, and from the cafe we watch a 3-year-old boy miming and chanting the haka then singing Advance Australia fair. His father is Australian and his mother a Kiwi, we learn.

We have by now replaced phone calls to Alpine Guides at Mt Cook with calls to Air Fiordland, which does a day package flying from Queenstown to Mt Cook airfield, where passengers catch the ski planes for the glacier. We're nothing if not determined - this glacier is becoming an obsession.

"It's been snowing all day and it's still snowing, so there will be lots of snow up top. We won't be running trips in the morning, though, as it will take two hours to clear the Mt Cook runway. Could be right for Monday.

We're skiing the Remarkables on Monday on a day when our blue skies have gone and the mist comes and goes. On one slope races are being held for snowboarders to the accompaniment of raucous music. We find another area and enjoy some good runs before the mist closes in again.

From Air Fiordland on Monday evening comes the news that poor weather and low cloud are almost certain to close down the flights. "I'd only give it a 10 per cent chance myself," says the manager.

We give it much less than 10 per cent and ski Coronet Peak again next day. This is the first time, on our ski safari, that we have skied the same field twice.

We meet some skiers who make us feel positively youthful. All members of the One Ski In The Grave Club, they meet each year to ski in New Zealand and sometimes overseas. The oldest member we meet started skiing when 70 and is now in his 80s.

Our last report from Air Fiordland's manager is a classic. "An easterly is blowing cloud on to the Mt Cook airport and up the valley onto the Tasman Glacier. We can't get in or out of the airport ... Don't worry, I know an Auckland skier who came south eight times to try to ski the Tasman Glacier and he succeeded on the eighth visit!"

Is this man trying to cheer us up? We make for home. We haven't skied the wretched glacier but we have skied six different skifields in an extraordinary ski safari. The dream remains.