Abby screamed.
Lying on the snow, pinned by a heavy hiking pack, she watched her ski rocket down the mountain. She wasn’t getting that back. It was nearly dark and she was exhausted – maybe taking a group of first timers into the backcountry during a blizzard hadn’t been the smartest decision.
Abby and I grew up around the mountains, with outdoorsy families who encouraged our many adventures and endless planning. Backcountry ski trips became a regular occurrence, a cheap(er) way to enjoy skiing in the Australian mountains. While we typically headed out in small groups, we decided it was time to indoctrinate our larger group of friends.
Trip planning began months in advance – a real rarity as we’re typically last-minute people, but we wanted to do this properly. We booked a weekend at Johnston’s Hut, a private backcountry cabin near Falls Creek, so we had a guaranteed bed for the night. We even gave everyone a packing list – despite being a cruisy 12km ski, we wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible.
But naturally, the mountains have their own plan. And in this instance, that plan involved a blizzard.
We scanned every weather report available, the conditions looking grislier by the hour. While packing bags, preparing food, driving up the mountain and even while hiring rental gear, we were furiously discussing whether we should call the trip off. However, spurred on by the group’s enthusiasm and the incredibly blasé man working in rentals – “she’ll be right, it won’t take more than a couple hours” – we decided it was worth a crack.
Loaded with heavy packs, we clipped into our cross-country skis and headed off. It was slow-going (if you’ve ever fallen on skis with a 20kg pack strapped to your back you’ll know what I’m talking about) and the visibility was poor, but our spirits were high. After about 45 minutes, we realised we had forgotten the hut key. Abby, our strongest skier, rushed back to the car while the rest of us continued the slow trek along the lake. The steep track into the mountains was a slog but we pushed through to the ridgeline.
3km of mostly flat track… sounds easy, right? Maybe if we weren’t facing a full whiteout and 90km/h wind gusts. The mountains were like a toddler learning the recorder – blasting us with the full force of their lungs, icy snow like spittle. With every gust people fell over, and it wasn’t long before we’d unclipped our skis and were carrying them in our arms.
My voice was hoarse from yelling at the group to stay together, my partner had to stop every 20 meters as he was carrying another group member’s pack, and Abby and I were constantly being asked whether we should call it and ring the SES.
Despite our exhaustion, we knew we were close to the hut. We had packed tents, were warm and dry under our waterproofs, and still had some daylight left. It wasn’t an emergency yet. We reassured the group, checked in on everyone, and kept pushing through.
It took us two hours to hike 2km along the ridgeline. Heads down, we stumbled through the white landscape, wind screaming like a banshee. We reached the turnoff – 1km to go. We were so close, yet we knew this was the most navigationally challenging part of the trip, and night’s dark tendrils were beginning to creep into the valley. For the first time since we’d set out, I was genuinely nervous.
The barely visible poles we were following headed in the wrong direction, and with every third step the snow collapsed beneath our feet, our heavy packs tackling us into the ground. During one of many falls, Abby’s ski slid away into the darkness. The accident was like a needle bursting a blister, releasing all the pressure and stress built up during the day, and she screamed.
Using a phone GPS, we re-directed ourselves in the dusky light. Step, collapse. Step, collapse. Our cheery chatter had died out, we were silent aside from the occasional “how much further?”.
Several phantom huts were spotted before Johnston’s Hut finally came into sight. I felt nothing but utter relief.
The joy of defrosting in front of the fire and eating a big, carby meal almost managed to balance out what we’d just gone through.
The rest of the weekend was glorious – fresh powder turns, playing guitar in the warm hut, and a stunning ski out.
In retrospect, we should have cancelled the trip. We got lucky. It was an important learning experience – we’re not invincible, and the consequences of a bad decision far outweigh the rewards. Still, it was an unforgettable journey, and one I’m grateful to have shared with an incredibly strong, supportive group of friends.
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