The Ski Trip

On July 2, Anne, Bronwyn, Alison and I boarded a plane for Queenstown, New Zealand. I certainly didn't feel as though I'd "earned" a ski trip, but the plans had been made many months earlier by the other three, and I was looking forward to my first real stay in NZ. Prior to this, my only exposure to the land of the kiwi had been through concourse windows at Auckland airport, on the way to somewhere else.

The nerdier among you may be aware that Queenstown was a base of operations for a good deal of the filming of the "Lord of the Rings" movie trilogy. The mountains here are every bit as grand and rugged as they appear onscreen, and we were treated to a cinematic view as we drifted over them in a roar of white noise on our southeast trajectory from Melbourne. Slipping low into the range on our approach, the snow-covered slopes loomed in the porthole windows on both sides of the plane; suddenly, without the ability to see their peaks, they appeared huge but scale-less, and perilously close. I was reminded of a scene filmed in an entirely different climate-- at the edge of the Suez Canal in "Lawrence of Arabia" when Peter O'Toole gawks at the sight of a massive ship cutting through the desert.

The airport. I don't know who this is, but I like his posture and the arrows over his head.

The air was cold and clear when we landed, and from the tarmac we passed through the duty-free shop, for gin, and into the line for customs clearance. Anne's shoes, which bore traces of Australian mud, were momentarily confiscated for a good scrubbing by one of the officers. After picking up the rental car, we drove to the hotel to drop off our bags and then headed straight into town to pick up our pre-arranged ski gear.

Brown's Ski Rentals, though thronged with customers, was a crackerjack operation and had me outfitted inside an hour with some pretty sweet-looking gear. I just had no faith I'd know how to make it work. The one and only time I had ever skied was at Massanutten, Virginia with my friend Leigh Carroll, when I was 13. I made perhaps two trips down the slope that afternoon and I don't recall having particularly enjoyed myself. But I did still like the idea of skiing and was eager to learn.

The Rodeo

On Sunday night, Sue, Alison and I drove north from Wunghnu to Tocumwal for the rodeo. Tocumwal is a small country town on the Murray River just over the border with New South Wales, and very popular with weekend holiday-makers. We approached the town at night, and could see their campfires flickering in the dark, tracing the contours of the Murray.

Sue kindly paid our admission of $25 per person, which I thought staggering for a small country festival. All of the action was contained within a single, large aluminium corral that had been erected for the purpose. Spectators either stood, clutching foam rubber stubby holders with cans of Bundaberg Rum & Cola screwed into them, or perched on bails of hay that flanked the corral. A few lucky folks had grabbed seats slightly further away in a small grandstand that had three rows of tiered benches. Preschoolers ran up and down pathways, waving battery-operated plastic lightsabres. Smoking teens congregated around empty fuel barrels in which fires had been lit for warmth. The rodeo action was fast and constant with scarcely a lull between events, but we had to peer between the aluminium bars to see what was happening. Modern country and western music blared over loudspeakers while the announcer shouted the names of competitors.

Sue and Alison scrutinised the program, which indicated that we'd arrived just in time for the "rope & tie," sponsored by Greenways Holiday Units of Tocumwal.  I headed to the opposite end of the show grounds to see what looked interesting among the food and game vendors.


I liked the "Circus Clowns Winning Numbers" setup; the prizes held no interest for me, but the clowns themselves looked old fashioned and slightly creepy, as their open-mouthed, disembodied heads oscillated in unison. As far as traditional carnival paraphernalia goes, these were the genuine article and it was nice to see them, looking vibrant and well-cared for. I wondered if these kinds of arcade attractions were still made. I certainly hope so.

Food-wise, the Dagwood Dog stand seemed to be doing the briskest business. A Dagwood Dog is the Australian version of a corn dog, but with a thicker sheath of fried batter. According to Wikipedia, these can also be called a Pluto Pup or a Dippy Dog, depending on the region. [By the way, all of these names struck me as better than the disgusting moniker "Krusty Pup" favoured in the Pacific Northwest.] Another vendor-- a group of moms raising funds for the local primary school-- sold hamburgers with cole slaw on them. I bought one, deciding it was the healthiest option available.

Before heading back to the show, I lingered a bit, watching a solitary horse that had been tied up next to its trailer beneath enormous red gum trees, with bark that looked ghostly and luminous in the mixture of halogen light and wood smoke that hung in the air. It was the only non-performing animal I saw. Having exhausted the quiet end of the rodeo grounds, I rejoined Sue and Alison just in time to catch the open barrel race.