New Zealand: a last utopia for skiers.
The bottom hemisphere’s longest glacial runs and a fresh coating of July snow tend to produce that effect.
So, you know, ski it slow. It’s summer.
Behold Ski the Tasman, a meandering summer ski jaunt up to the top of Middle Earth and back down again with a picnic, enlisting leisure-seekers now through September.
Almost May, the month before June. You’re saying to yourself, “I should really pencil in an afternoon—or a string of afternoons connected by overnight hut stays—of ski-tripping down six miles of sweeping, wide-open slopes somewhere cool. Glacier cool.”
Fast-forward to the Mount Cook glacier fields. You’ll de-board your ski plane from a landing strip atop the highest one. Then, you’ll take to hitting six miles of rolling, sun-kissed bowls with your ski associates until the sun sets over 117 smaller glaciers around you and you descend toward the ocean.
As you near the watery edge, assume “pizza” formation. This will indicate to the pilot hovering above that it’s picnic time. At which point, you’ll be scooped up and jetted off to an ice field preselected for its smoothness. It’s here that your guide, a ski conqueror of Himalayan glory, will lay his tablecloth over the snowfield, adorning it with pastries and fresh pipfruit.
Feel free to Google what a “pipfruit” is.
The bottom hemisphere’s longest glacial runs and a fresh coating of July snow tend to produce that effect.
So, you know, ski it slow. It’s summer.
Behold Ski the Tasman, a meandering summer ski jaunt up to the top of Middle Earth and back down again with a picnic, enlisting leisure-seekers now through September.
Almost May, the month before June. You’re saying to yourself, “I should really pencil in an afternoon—or a string of afternoons connected by overnight hut stays—of ski-tripping down six miles of sweeping, wide-open slopes somewhere cool. Glacier cool.”
Fast-forward to the Mount Cook glacier fields. You’ll de-board your ski plane from a landing strip atop the highest one. Then, you’ll take to hitting six miles of rolling, sun-kissed bowls with your ski associates until the sun sets over 117 smaller glaciers around you and you descend toward the ocean.
As you near the watery edge, assume “pizza” formation. This will indicate to the pilot hovering above that it’s picnic time. At which point, you’ll be scooped up and jetted off to an ice field preselected for its smoothness. It’s here that your guide, a ski conqueror of Himalayan glory, will lay his tablecloth over the snowfield, adorning it with pastries and fresh pipfruit.
Feel free to Google what a “pipfruit” is.
