Kangaroo Hoppet August 2002 by Saul Goldman

In 1999 I began a quest to ski the world, The World Loppet series. I plan to ski ten of the possible 14 races, which will give me the distinction of World Loppet Master, sort of like a Jedi Knight on skis. It is a wonderful thing traveling the world and sampling skiing in a variety of settings. In August I found myself in Australia of all places. They have snow there? You ask. Most people including many Aussies aren’t aware that it does snow down-under. In a country best known for surfing and rugby, people do ski in the Southern Alps AKA the Snowy Mountains. When I arrived in Helsingborg Sweden 4 years ago and told the hotelier in the quaint port city that we were in Sweden to ski the Vasaloppet. She instantly lit up. She was truly proud of her national day and honestly pleased that we had traveled all the way from Canada to join her country’s celebration on snow. She would be one of the five million Swedes that would be cheering 16,000 skiers on that first Sunday in March.
On our arrival at the Sydney airport the customs officer looked at us in bewilderment when we told him the purpose of our trip was to ski the Kangaroo Hoppet ski race. After all, the sun was shining and surfers were enjoying the waves and moderate 20°C winter weather at Manly Beach. Skiing in Australia is an obscure sport. Cross-country skiing is even more obscure. There are just a few places where temperature, altitude and precipitation conspire to create a semblance of winter-like conditions.
Our destination is Falls Creek some 661km south of Sydney in the Great Alpine National Park of Victoria. Not far from Mount Kosciuszko, Australia’s highest peak at 2,229 metres. Named after a Polish prince, it may not be Everest but it is snow covered along with surrounding peaks and the high Bogong Plateau. That is very important since much of Aus is in the grips of a two year drought. A meter of snow is a welcome sight when you fly halfway around the world to go skiing in August.
Our first stop is the Howman’s Gap Alpine Center, an outdoor education center at the gate to the national park. This friendly dormitory facility will be our home for the next seven days. We are anxious to ski so we dump our gear and head up to the ski trails. Past the modest alpine resort and ski lifts we reach the cross-country trails. The trail begins where the road ends. In the summer there is a mountain road that leaves the Bogong Plateau and heads down to the lowlands. In winter it is closed to anything other than skiers. The late afternoon sun hangs low on the horizon casting a golden light on the vast snowfields that seem to go on forever. Before us is a beautiful white expanse sprinkled with tufts of snowgums that cling tenaciously to the snow-cover for fear of being blown into the Tasman Sea, 120km away. Our first tentative strides on southern snow are fast and effortless. The disappearing sun has dropped the temperature below freezing and the refrozen trail is fast and unforgiving. This is like starting a new season. The first snow is the stuff that reminds you why you ski. The joy of effortless self-transport is a wonderful thing. Like riding a bike it does come back. It just involves a few fits and starts. The lunar landscape of Falls Creek gives us few landmarks to judge distance or location. We just headed out on the trail like two pent up puppies let out to pee after being cooped up in a car for an afternoon. We were slipping and sliding in the southern hemisphere. Water swirls counterclockwise down the drain and skiers ski on the left just like the cars. We skied up we skied down. The refrozen snow and our summer ski legs make the fast descents scary. It is getting dark. There are no familiar landmarks. There are no trail signs. I am not looking forward to retracing our tracks in the dark. This is supposed to be a loop. The unfamiliar darkening scenery put a sinking feeling in my gut. Over the next rise we finally spot the familiar reservoir that marks our return to civilization and a lesson learned the hard way.
The next couple of days saw us enjoying clear skies, refrozen snow and mild temperatures. Our Australian friend, Lech took us around the 42km Hoppet trail. My heartrate monitor measured 700metres of climbing in this marathon course. No wonder the organizers don’t publish a course profile in their registration form. With firm fast snow it won’t be too bad.
Two days before race day, clouds, rain and fog engulf our mountain paradise. On race day the clouds lift enough to allow the race to go. The High Bogong Plain is not the place to ski in fog or darkness as I have learned. The warm temperatures and rain have done their damage. The snow is like mashed potatoes and about as slippery. The gun sounds and we flap like live fish packed in slush. We only lack the smell. I reach the major climb feeling frisky. The snowgumms protect the snow, keeping the climb firm. I pull to the right to pass a slower skier ahead of me. As I pass he shouts, “fast skier on the right.” Like Mosses parting the Red Sea, skiers ahead jump left obliging me to continue my pace. Out of the Gums and into the open featureless mushscape the wet snow sucks the life out of my legs. The snow is so sticky that the once scary down hills feel like someone has tilted the plateau reversing the pitch. It is all uphill from here. The race transformed into a slow trudge. Eventually I reach the end. Relief overwhelms my usual feeling of inspiration. I made it.