It’s a strange thing to see magic in different aspects and timing, I suppose.
In 2024, we drove about 4 hours down to the middle of New Zealand’s North Island in August, chasing some semblance of snow over at Mt Ruapehu’s Whakapapa Ski Area. To those who are not familiar, we don’t often get snow in the northern areas, and rarely over at Auckland, where winter is arguably manageable at maybe -2° at most, maybe 5° if we’re lucky. It doesn’t translate into snow, and depending on your view and experience of the cold, it may or may not be a godsend to Southeast Asian transferees, whose definition of “winter” back home is 25° Celsius on a good day. Ironically, that prompts kids to throw on a sweatshirt, which in itself is a rather funny phenomenon.
A sweatshirt. In the Philippines. Where, barring sexual assault, the most sensible item of clothing to wear is a sports bra.
Anyway. I wanted to snowboard. So I did. Unfortunately, I got stuck in the beginners track (or what they call the Happy Valley beginner terrain) because I didn’t know how they operated with the other lifts (they open later if the weather is abysmal), so when we finally took the gondola up, I’d already surrendered my boots and board.
This year, I went back with friends from my dragonboat team. With the promise of a hike and a ski trip, we all went south hopeful, but unfortunately it was raining. It didn’t stop us from doing some activities, but we were for the most part drenched, and I came down with a nasty case of flu.
Also, the mountains were hidden in a vastness of, well, rain. I felt bad for the folks who were seeing snow for the first time, and I couldn’t even get my digital camera out.
It’s a good thing I have my film one.
Anyway. I’m sharing because it’s spring soon and I needed to remind myself why I like winter sometimes.
