Going Downhill fast and in style
Going Downhill fast and in style
For non-stop action on and off the slopes you can’t beat Gay Ski Week in Queenstown. Amanda Woods recalls her bumps and triumphs last year. Keep your legs together!” When I signed up for Gay Ski Week in Queenstown, this was not the kind of advice I expected people to shout at me out on the slopes. However, as Kate had been flying down black runs with the greatest of ease, and I’d just resorted to bouncing down a steep incline on my bum with my skis in my hand, I decided to pay attention and take her advice. As I struggle to my feet, find my balance and get a little momentum up, I look down to see my friends waiting at the bottom of the run, cheering me on. And that’s when it dawns on me. I am skiing. Really skiing. And it feels fantastic.
A few days earlier, it was a different story. Despite never having skied or snowboarded in my life I had been seduced by the concept of gay ski weeks. The first was held way back in 1977 in Aspen, Colorado, USA. Now, more than 30 years later, Aspen’s stunning sister city Queenstown, New Zealand, is rolling out the icy welcome mat to become the newest ski week on the circuit. With four international ski areas – Cardrona, The Remarkables, Coronet Peak and Treble Cone – Queenstown is a favourite with skiers and snowboarders who come from all over the world to spend a season in New Zealand. With street names like Camp and Shotover, and shops called Skin World and Beaver Liquor, it’s hard to believe Gay Ski Week Queenstown has taken so long to arrive here. The thought of flying all the way to Aspen, Whistler or any of the Gay Ski Weeks in Europe seemed like a very expensive gamble for a ski virgin. So when friends suggested popping across to New Zealand for the second annual Gay Ski Week in Queenstown, I didn’t hesitate for a moment. Although I had no experience whatsoever, I’d always just assumed I had a natural, inner snow bunny lurking below the surface. I thought as soon as I snapped on a set of skis for the first time I’d fall over adorably once or twice, laugh merrily, and by the end of the day would be swishing along in style. Turns out it’s harder than it looks… My first day on the baby slopes is called to an abrupt end when I decide skiing sucks. I can barely remain upright let alone manage a basic snow plough, I feel guilty about holding my friends back, my outfit is more Boiler Room than Barbarella, and the shots of schnapps I had for courage seem to be doing more to hinder than help my situation. If I have an inner snow bunny, it really is the runt of the litter. So I convince my friends that I’m fine “practicing” by myself, wave them off on the ski lifts and ask a passing cute Canadian to teach me how to get these bloody things off my feet. Then I make the short, painful moonwalk in those dastardly ski boots to the nearest bar, where I am delighted to find another ski week virgin I’d met over Welcome Drinks the night before. Michail is from Brisbane, is learning to snowboard and isn’t having much more luck than me. So we happily clink our glasses and watch the boys go by as we wait for our friends to exhaust themselves on the slopes. That night, as everyone else plans to get up at the crack of dawn to head back up the mountain, my friend Vanessa and I decide to do something much more sensible. Sleep in, have a huge breakfast and get pampered from head to toe at the Hush Day Spa. It’s a canny move. My bruised ego and bruised bum are both feeling a lot better by the time I step out of the spa doors and I’m ready to take on the world. As Vanessa unwinds with a good book, I wander through the town plotting my next move. The options are seemingly endless and soon I’m drowning in a sea of brochures. Heli-skiing is obviously out, but do I want to skydive over a glacier? Fly like a bird on a wire? Blackwater raft through a cave? Paraglide or go-kart? Is it better to walk, mountain bike or ride a horse through Lord Of The Rings locations? Or should I just get back in that fluffy white robe and have another massage? I really am quite giddy with choices. Which is the only way I can explain how, after an adrenalin warm up with some 360 degree spins in the famous Shotover jetboat, I come to be suspended more than 60 metres (or 200ft) over Shotover Canyon with my legs wrapped around a teddy bear in a gimp outfit. No, this is not a Gay Ski Week special event but one of more than half a dozen commercial jumps to chose from at one of the newest thrills in town – the Canyon Swing. As I don’t want to be one of those people who freeze in terror and refuse to step off the platform, I tell the nice man I want an easy jump – where they control when I drop – but I also want something dramatic. He grins, whips out a small teddy bear covered with gaffa tape, attaches the Gimp Bear to my harness and slowly coaxes me into position. And so it is that I find myself hanging upside down, my legs wrapped around the rope above me, back arched, arms stretched out, and hips thrust forward, staring face first at the rocks so very far below. Not quite what I had in mind when I said “easy”. As the blood rushes to my face and the tension becomes unbearable, he finally releases me and I’m falling. Freefalling into the depths of Shotover Canyon. After what seems an eternity, my harness finally tenses and I’m flying at 150kph through the canyon walls. After swooping back and forth I eventually come to a gentle stop and am winched back to the platform above. Now, apparently, men get very horny after adrenalin rushes. I can’t say I felt particularly lusty, but I will admit the Canyon Swing affected my judgement because the next thing I know I’m hobbling to the edge of a bungy platform with a cord around my ankles. This time, I figure I’m brave enough to jump and I leap out before the guide has finished counting to three. As I go into freefall I realise I’m not nearly as brave as I thought. My heart stops and for a moment I’m not sure if it will ever start beating again. Thankfully, I’d decided to make my jump from the world’s first commercial bungee site, the Kawarau Bridge, with a 43 metre (141ft) drop rather than from the Nevis Highwire Bungy which is a terrifying – or exhilarating depending on your point of view – 134 metres. That’s 440 feet for our Imperial friends. Despite my freefall fears, once again I survive and decide to celebrate by catching up with my friends who have just returned from the slopes. We head for the cosy Blue Door Bar in nearby Arrowtown, which takes bunker chic to new heights. As I sink into a leather easy chair by the fire, sip on a local beer and look back over my day, I realise that after all of this leaping into the unknown I’m ready to try skiing again. And this time, I might even take a couple of lessons. Yes, it’s amazing how something so bloody obvious can make all the difference. Sure, I take a lot of tumbles, learn a very painful lesson in how not to get off a chair lift and spend most of my time in a very undignified snowplough position but none of that matters because in just two days I’m on top of the world and skiing down a mountain. By Friday afternoon, I’m finally ready to leave my beginners group and rejoin my friends. My DJ friends Kate Monroe and Tim Blanshard assume the role of patient ski instructors to get me through the tough bits and although I do resort to taking my skis off and just sliding down a particularly tricky bit of an intermediate run, I’m still rather proud of myself. The last time my friends saw me I couldn’t even stand up for five seconds let alone ski a few metres. All the muscles in my legs are on fire but my skis are parallel and I finally have the wind in my hair rather than the snow in my face. And now I get it. I understand why all these people have been rushing up these mountains at first light. I understand why Sydney boy Ron continued to ski down black runs with his arm in a sling after a nasty fall in a snowboarding lesson. I’m addicted. I may not be a snow bunny yet, but I’m prepared to settle for snow kitten for now. Sadly, just as I get the fire in my belly, I have to go cold turkey. Gay Ski Week is coming to a close and the time has come to get off the mountain. As my friends head off on another difficult run, I decide to go back to the beginners run. But when I reach the top, I realise a storm is rolling in and there isn’t another skier in sight. The wind is picking up, the snow is starting to swirl and it’s very tempting to go to the ski lift operator and beg to be allowed to ride back down. Instead I take a deep breath, do a mental check of all the “keep your legs together” advice I’ve been given, take one long look at the dramatic mountains as far as the eye can see, and get on with it. As I make my way down the mountain, it sinks in that there’s no one here to save me if I fall and can’t get back up and I’m kind of thrilled by the challenge. I feel like a brave polar explorer. A brave polar explorer on a beginners’ run, sure, but as I’m swept away with the adrenalin and high drama of my surroundings, I allow myself to indulge in the fantasy. In the end, I don’t fall. I manage to make it back to the car park before the storm really hits, which I’m rather happy about because the only White Out I want to experience is the White Out Party that night, which is now only a few hours away. Throughout the week, organiser Mike Sanford made sure solo travellers and groups of friends could be as social as they liked with a range of activities from champagne picnics on the snowy peaks to drag races and wine tours. One highlight was the fabulous Buffy and Bimbo drag show. In between witty exchanges with the audience and shimmying to disco hits, Buffy and Bimbo sang local songs and had dancers perform the Maori Poi. While some of the boys hit the town after the show, others are so exhausted after skiing all day that the idea of an empty bed is even more tempting than a nightclub full of boys. Now that the skiing part of the week is over, it seems most are ready to party. To warm up, we start at the coldest spot in town – the Minus 5 Bar at the Steamer Warf. Its walls, furniture, bar and even glasses all made of ice. Between the cocktails and the ice sculptures around us, we are almost transported to Narnia as we recline on animal pelts draped over ice thrones. We sip our drinks, nibble on our glasses and take happy snaps before the time comes to kick on at the White Out Party. After being my informal ski instructor, Kate Monroe assumes her better known role as Australia’s First Lady Of House to DJ the party. Men strip down from their ski jackets to their singlets to their bare chests and the dancefloor quickly fills with guys and girls with grins on their faces and hands in the air. At this point it’s worth mentioning that New Zealand has extremely tight airport security and you should not be tempted to bring anything stronger than your duty free into town. But if you fancy putting an extra spring in your step, the local record store sells a completely legal high known as Reds, which can lead to the kind of spine tingling rushes that will have you promising to keep in touch with everyone in the bar. I dance the night away with new and old friends from the States, the UK, Australia, Puerto Rico and more. With more than 200 runs in four major ski areas, it was difficult to appreciate just how many people were in town for Gay Ski Week, but now it’s clear what a success the week has been. More than 350 people flew in specifically for Gay Ski Week in 2004, which is more than double the 2003 count, and one look at the smiling faces all around me would suggest the event will continue to go from strength to strength. At the end of the night, a group of us head to a nearby bar to watch the sun come up and look back over our week. For experienced skiers it was a dream week of waking at 6am and skiing all day to their heart’s content on a seemingly endless combination of runs. For beginners like me, well it may have been the Reds, but we are rather chuffed with ourselves. We’d pushed ourselves to new limits, safe in the knowledge that if it all went wrong, there was still plenty of fun filled ways to pass the time. In the end, the best thing about gay ski week is that it really doesn’t matter if you can ski or not. Whether you spend the week racing down black runs, end up getting so distracted by the parties and adrenalin rush adventures that you never make it onto the snow, or even find yourself in plaster filling out insurance forms by an open fire, you’ll always be in good company. Which, after all, is the whole point of spending a week on the piste with your friends, isn’t it?
www.gayskiweeknz.com
A few days earlier, it was a different story. Despite never having skied or snowboarded in my life I had been seduced by the concept of gay ski weeks. The first was held way back in 1977 in Aspen, Colorado, USA. Now, more than 30 years later, Aspen’s stunning sister city Queenstown, New Zealand, is rolling out the icy welcome mat to become the newest ski week on the circuit. With four international ski areas – Cardrona, The Remarkables, Coronet Peak and Treble Cone – Queenstown is a favourite with skiers and snowboarders who come from all over the world to spend a season in New Zealand. With street names like Camp and Shotover, and shops called Skin World and Beaver Liquor, it’s hard to believe Gay Ski Week Queenstown has taken so long to arrive here. The thought of flying all the way to Aspen, Whistler or any of the Gay Ski Weeks in Europe seemed like a very expensive gamble for a ski virgin. So when friends suggested popping across to New Zealand for the second annual Gay Ski Week in Queenstown, I didn’t hesitate for a moment. Although I had no experience whatsoever, I’d always just assumed I had a natural, inner snow bunny lurking below the surface. I thought as soon as I snapped on a set of skis for the first time I’d fall over adorably once or twice, laugh merrily, and by the end of the day would be swishing along in style. Turns out it’s harder than it looks… My first day on the baby slopes is called to an abrupt end when I decide skiing sucks. I can barely remain upright let alone manage a basic snow plough, I feel guilty about holding my friends back, my outfit is more Boiler Room than Barbarella, and the shots of schnapps I had for courage seem to be doing more to hinder than help my situation. If I have an inner snow bunny, it really is the runt of the litter. So I convince my friends that I’m fine “practicing” by myself, wave them off on the ski lifts and ask a passing cute Canadian to teach me how to get these bloody things off my feet. Then I make the short, painful moonwalk in those dastardly ski boots to the nearest bar, where I am delighted to find another ski week virgin I’d met over Welcome Drinks the night before. Michail is from Brisbane, is learning to snowboard and isn’t having much more luck than me. So we happily clink our glasses and watch the boys go by as we wait for our friends to exhaust themselves on the slopes. That night, as everyone else plans to get up at the crack of dawn to head back up the mountain, my friend Vanessa and I decide to do something much more sensible. Sleep in, have a huge breakfast and get pampered from head to toe at the Hush Day Spa. It’s a canny move. My bruised ego and bruised bum are both feeling a lot better by the time I step out of the spa doors and I’m ready to take on the world. As Vanessa unwinds with a good book, I wander through the town plotting my next move. The options are seemingly endless and soon I’m drowning in a sea of brochures. Heli-skiing is obviously out, but do I want to skydive over a glacier? Fly like a bird on a wire? Blackwater raft through a cave? Paraglide or go-kart? Is it better to walk, mountain bike or ride a horse through Lord Of The Rings locations? Or should I just get back in that fluffy white robe and have another massage? I really am quite giddy with choices. Which is the only way I can explain how, after an adrenalin warm up with some 360 degree spins in the famous Shotover jetboat, I come to be suspended more than 60 metres (or 200ft) over Shotover Canyon with my legs wrapped around a teddy bear in a gimp outfit. No, this is not a Gay Ski Week special event but one of more than half a dozen commercial jumps to chose from at one of the newest thrills in town – the Canyon Swing. As I don’t want to be one of those people who freeze in terror and refuse to step off the platform, I tell the nice man I want an easy jump – where they control when I drop – but I also want something dramatic. He grins, whips out a small teddy bear covered with gaffa tape, attaches the Gimp Bear to my harness and slowly coaxes me into position. And so it is that I find myself hanging upside down, my legs wrapped around the rope above me, back arched, arms stretched out, and hips thrust forward, staring face first at the rocks so very far below. Not quite what I had in mind when I said “easy”. As the blood rushes to my face and the tension becomes unbearable, he finally releases me and I’m falling. Freefalling into the depths of Shotover Canyon. After what seems an eternity, my harness finally tenses and I’m flying at 150kph through the canyon walls. After swooping back and forth I eventually come to a gentle stop and am winched back to the platform above. Now, apparently, men get very horny after adrenalin rushes. I can’t say I felt particularly lusty, but I will admit the Canyon Swing affected my judgement because the next thing I know I’m hobbling to the edge of a bungy platform with a cord around my ankles. This time, I figure I’m brave enough to jump and I leap out before the guide has finished counting to three. As I go into freefall I realise I’m not nearly as brave as I thought. My heart stops and for a moment I’m not sure if it will ever start beating again. Thankfully, I’d decided to make my jump from the world’s first commercial bungee site, the Kawarau Bridge, with a 43 metre (141ft) drop rather than from the Nevis Highwire Bungy which is a terrifying – or exhilarating depending on your point of view – 134 metres. That’s 440 feet for our Imperial friends. Despite my freefall fears, once again I survive and decide to celebrate by catching up with my friends who have just returned from the slopes. We head for the cosy Blue Door Bar in nearby Arrowtown, which takes bunker chic to new heights. As I sink into a leather easy chair by the fire, sip on a local beer and look back over my day, I realise that after all of this leaping into the unknown I’m ready to try skiing again. And this time, I might even take a couple of lessons. Yes, it’s amazing how something so bloody obvious can make all the difference. Sure, I take a lot of tumbles, learn a very painful lesson in how not to get off a chair lift and spend most of my time in a very undignified snowplough position but none of that matters because in just two days I’m on top of the world and skiing down a mountain. By Friday afternoon, I’m finally ready to leave my beginners group and rejoin my friends. My DJ friends Kate Monroe and Tim Blanshard assume the role of patient ski instructors to get me through the tough bits and although I do resort to taking my skis off and just sliding down a particularly tricky bit of an intermediate run, I’m still rather proud of myself. The last time my friends saw me I couldn’t even stand up for five seconds let alone ski a few metres. All the muscles in my legs are on fire but my skis are parallel and I finally have the wind in my hair rather than the snow in my face. And now I get it. I understand why all these people have been rushing up these mountains at first light. I understand why Sydney boy Ron continued to ski down black runs with his arm in a sling after a nasty fall in a snowboarding lesson. I’m addicted. I may not be a snow bunny yet, but I’m prepared to settle for snow kitten for now. Sadly, just as I get the fire in my belly, I have to go cold turkey. Gay Ski Week is coming to a close and the time has come to get off the mountain. As my friends head off on another difficult run, I decide to go back to the beginners run. But when I reach the top, I realise a storm is rolling in and there isn’t another skier in sight. The wind is picking up, the snow is starting to swirl and it’s very tempting to go to the ski lift operator and beg to be allowed to ride back down. Instead I take a deep breath, do a mental check of all the “keep your legs together” advice I’ve been given, take one long look at the dramatic mountains as far as the eye can see, and get on with it. As I make my way down the mountain, it sinks in that there’s no one here to save me if I fall and can’t get back up and I’m kind of thrilled by the challenge. I feel like a brave polar explorer. A brave polar explorer on a beginners’ run, sure, but as I’m swept away with the adrenalin and high drama of my surroundings, I allow myself to indulge in the fantasy. In the end, I don’t fall. I manage to make it back to the car park before the storm really hits, which I’m rather happy about because the only White Out I want to experience is the White Out Party that night, which is now only a few hours away. Throughout the week, organiser Mike Sanford made sure solo travellers and groups of friends could be as social as they liked with a range of activities from champagne picnics on the snowy peaks to drag races and wine tours. One highlight was the fabulous Buffy and Bimbo drag show. In between witty exchanges with the audience and shimmying to disco hits, Buffy and Bimbo sang local songs and had dancers perform the Maori Poi. While some of the boys hit the town after the show, others are so exhausted after skiing all day that the idea of an empty bed is even more tempting than a nightclub full of boys. Now that the skiing part of the week is over, it seems most are ready to party. To warm up, we start at the coldest spot in town – the Minus 5 Bar at the Steamer Warf. Its walls, furniture, bar and even glasses all made of ice. Between the cocktails and the ice sculptures around us, we are almost transported to Narnia as we recline on animal pelts draped over ice thrones. We sip our drinks, nibble on our glasses and take happy snaps before the time comes to kick on at the White Out Party. After being my informal ski instructor, Kate Monroe assumes her better known role as Australia’s First Lady Of House to DJ the party. Men strip down from their ski jackets to their singlets to their bare chests and the dancefloor quickly fills with guys and girls with grins on their faces and hands in the air. At this point it’s worth mentioning that New Zealand has extremely tight airport security and you should not be tempted to bring anything stronger than your duty free into town. But if you fancy putting an extra spring in your step, the local record store sells a completely legal high known as Reds, which can lead to the kind of spine tingling rushes that will have you promising to keep in touch with everyone in the bar. I dance the night away with new and old friends from the States, the UK, Australia, Puerto Rico and more. With more than 200 runs in four major ski areas, it was difficult to appreciate just how many people were in town for Gay Ski Week, but now it’s clear what a success the week has been. More than 350 people flew in specifically for Gay Ski Week in 2004, which is more than double the 2003 count, and one look at the smiling faces all around me would suggest the event will continue to go from strength to strength. At the end of the night, a group of us head to a nearby bar to watch the sun come up and look back over our week. For experienced skiers it was a dream week of waking at 6am and skiing all day to their heart’s content on a seemingly endless combination of runs. For beginners like me, well it may have been the Reds, but we are rather chuffed with ourselves. We’d pushed ourselves to new limits, safe in the knowledge that if it all went wrong, there was still plenty of fun filled ways to pass the time. In the end, the best thing about gay ski week is that it really doesn’t matter if you can ski or not. Whether you spend the week racing down black runs, end up getting so distracted by the parties and adrenalin rush adventures that you never make it onto the snow, or even find yourself in plaster filling out insurance forms by an open fire, you’ll always be in good company. Which, after all, is the whole point of spending a week on the piste with your friends, isn’t it?
www.gayskiweeknz.com
