The second time I went to the winter snowfields was to Thredbo. I had previously worked, as a student in long socks and eidelweissed drndl at Perisher Valley in summertime.
What a pretty winter village this is - or was: I haven't been there for ages.
I was with people I didn't know very well, in our small flat, but delightfully I felt at ease and happy with them quickly.
What a hard slog learning to ski is. The physical toil, the biting cold, the cement boots, the bodily unintelligence, the surrounding throng sailing past like Alis, floating like a butterfly. Or was that a bee? People, like dolphins, physically attuned to their environment.
How richly satisfying after a days hard slog - frustration mixed with moments of triumph and hope - to relax and eat and talk in the evening.
One evening when we were feeling wonderful, the chair lift suddenly came alight. Lit by torches that flamed out across the snow, we were entranced by the drama and spectacle as the chairs sailed up and around the mountain, flares hissing pulsing light aroubd them. What a wonderful show they put on for us.
We didn't know that they were searching for missing children. Three siblings, village children, found the next morning, frozen.
We make mistakes. that is our nature.
What seems to be may not be what is. That is our reality: our world.