The Slope Beneath My Feet

The sky was that fierce blue you only get in the middle of winter, the kind that cuts you through the eyes and sets your bones trembling. I stood strapped into skis that still felt like planks of lumber strapped to my feet, watching people shoot down the slope like it was nothing. Up close, you realize how brutal the Remarkables really are, no matter how picturesque they seem from down below in Queenstown. Standing at the top, it felt like staring off the edge of the world, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why anyone thought this was fun.

A tap on my shoulder shook me out of my daze. My instructor, Darren—a guy who looked born on the slopes with an arrogant grin and a perfect tan from a life of high-altitude glory—was giving me that pitying look he must save for hopeless tourists. "Just trust your knees," he said, his voice somewhere between patronising and indifferent. "Lean into the turns. Don’t fight the snow."

Easy for him to say. He was already sliding down the hill before the words even finished hitting the air, a streak of red against the stark white. I watched him go, feeling the humiliation prickling up under my collar. My hands clamped tight around the ski poles, and I forced myself to breathe, to focus. This wasn’t me—standing on a mountain, half-scared out of my mind, trying to survive a holiday sport like my life depended on it. I could practically see the town far below, a cluster of Queenstown hotels lit up like tiny jewels, warm with fires and glasses of wine, where people sat watching the snow dust the streets and enjoying the safety of it all.

I couldn’t stand here forever, though. People swooshed past me with the grace of seasoned pros, ignoring the rookie stuck like a lamppost on the beginner's slope. A mother with her two kids zipped by, the kids laughing like little daredevils. It was brutal. I didn’t belong here, I thought. I belonged back down there, on solid ground, feet firmly in the real world.

But instead of surrendering, I leaned into the thought of just getting down, piece by piece. It was like a first step out onto a frozen pond, one where you don’t know if you’ll fall straight through. I felt the tips of the skis twitch forward, felt the slight shift as gravity took hold, and I was in motion before I could rethink it. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t blink. I just held on.

The snow under my feet was sharp and biting, crisp from the night’s freeze, making every moment feel unsteady. And yet, somewhere between a stumble and a desperate flail, I found the tiniest bit of rhythm. I dug the edges of the skis in, felt the icy resistance, and for the first time, the mountain stopped fighting me. I stopped fighting it. My knees bent, my body tilted, and I felt a flash of something—maybe freedom, maybe a reckless kind of thrill I hadn’t known I wanted.

By the time I reached Darren, he was watching with mild interest, as if he didn’t expect much. He didn’t say anything, just turned and motioned for me to follow. And I did. More confidently, more in control. There was a strange kind of partnership with the snow I’d felt brewing with each turn, each sharp, scraping sound of my skis slicing through the ice. Darren’s form was perfect, and I trailed behind him, watching, mimicking his movements, feeling like I was catching onto a secret only he and the other mountain-born knew. The sun slanted low, turning everything to gold and shadow.

We stopped after another run, and I fell back onto a small snowbank, my legs shaking and breath heavy in my chest. Darren was surprisingly silent, almost thoughtful as he looked at me. “You kept up,” he said, and there was a glint in his eye I hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t quite respect, but maybe something close.

I managed a laugh, though it came out breathless. “Barely. Don’t you get tired of this?”

He shrugged, glancing out over the landscape like it was home, and in his way, maybe it was. “You get used to it. The mountain makes you feel small, but it also makes you feel... awake, like nothing else matters.” He looked back at me, his gaze softened for a moment. “You’ll either love it, or you’ll walk away.”

The sun had started its slow descent, throwing shades of pink and orange over the white. We’d stayed out longer than I’d realised. Looking back up the hill, I felt the day’s work in every part of me. I wasn’t graceful, wasn’t fast, but I’d found something in the rhythm of it, something in the way my body was learning to move with the mountain rather than against it.

Later, as we trudged back to the lodge, Darren fell in beside me. I could feel the warmth from the town below calling out like a soft promise. The Queenstown hotels were buzzing, the bars filled with exhausted skiers unwinding and tourists snapping photos, oblivious to the cold outside. And yet, there was a part of me that didn’t want the day to end. Not yet.

“You coming back tomorrow?” he asked, his tone casual but with a look that said he already knew the answer.

I hesitated, but only for a second. “Yeah,” I replied, barely recognising the quiet confidence in my own voice.

And I meant it.