Late October.
The fields are closed.
The lifts are silent.
But the mountain still calls.
And we — well, we still answer.

Five of us from the Alpine Club —
Blair, Nicky, Andy, Dave, and Jake —
Chasing the last turns of spring
At Tukino on Mount Ruapehu.

Blair and Nicky got the early run,
Skied the golden light of Friday sun.
The rest rolled in that evening glow,
Fire crackling, stories flowing slow.

Saturday dawned — blue-sky magic.
Snow firm, air crisp, spirits high.
We hiked across, skins on,
Climbing into that big white silence.

But higher up,
The breeze became a beast.
The glacier roared,
Rime ice clinging to everything it could reach.

Blair and Andy pushed for the plateau —
Heads down, leaning into the gale —
Till the wind said “No more.”
So we turned back.

Then came the carnage —
A pack took off like a runaway sled.
A crampon bag flew into the next valley.
Nicky’s skin liner escaped to freedom.
We chased, we shouted, we laughed —
Because, honestly, what else can you do?

And then — magic.
Spring corn, soft and smooth.
Turns that sang beneath our skis.
No lifts, no queues — just the mountain,
and us, carving joy into its flanks.

Lunch on the rocks,
Sun on our faces,
The kind of quiet that fills your chest
With gratitude.

A few more laps —
Because “just one more” always means two.
Then back to Tukino Lodge,
Boots off, fire on,
And Jake’s legendary chicken curry
Sealing the day with spice and satisfaction.

Sunday brought the storm —
Wind howling, rain tapping on the tin roof.
We lingered, read, laughed,
Then cruised down to Taihape for pies and coffee,
The kind of tired only the mountains can give.

The ski fields may be closed…
But adventure never is.