I don’t usually get nervous, but I don’t usually stand at a start line with 30 other telemarkers all ready to do whatever it takes to get down the hill first. The idea of a Chinese Downhill sounded like fun, but now looking down into the bowl, I’m not quite so sure. I joke with the guy beside me that I’m not afraid to fall, so he better get out of my way, and he explains his plan of not making a single turn. The course runs more than a kilometer down the open bowl, making a gentle righthander, after the steep pitch and the gully. The rules are simple, the first to the road wins. A cheer goes up on the call of, “is everyone ready?” I fidget a bit trying to make a quick game plan for a run I have never skied, the flat light and the millions people all around me.

“Three, two, one… GO!” In unison we all push off the ridge and start the game of chicken, who will turn first. I ski abreast 10 other frontrunners, fifty meters pass and a couple make their first turns and fall back. One hundred meters and three more drop some speed. It’s getting fast now, really fast. The bowl steepens out and another guy arcs a big one to save himself. Only four of us now, going mach chicken, I’m floating above the powder, rocketing down. To my right I hear a yell of pure, un-adulterated fun, “Waaaa-hooo!” and then almost in an instant I try and pull the throttle back just a hair and it all goes horribly wrong. I hook an edge and go over the bars, tomahawk style, end over end.

I get my senses back in a snowy heap only to see a few skiers pass by. I look back up the bowl and see pure carnage, telemarkers exploding all over the slope. I put my head back and laugh, not a cutesy chuckle but a Glen Plake cackle. This was the most fun I could think of. Welcome to Craigieburn and the New Zealand telemark scene.

New Zealand is famous for two things: sheep and Lord of the Rings. But if you think that’s it for this little country then you are really missing out. There is so much more: huge mountains, glaciers, great surf, rainforests, cool people and stacks of snow… in July!

The maritime climate is reminiscent of the Coast Mountains, and the fiords of Norway. It’s an untamed land that feels fresh out of the box, it’s no wonder that telemarking is such a perfect fit for this place.

We traveled to Craigieburn from our home in Queenstown for a stop in the annual telemark race series. Craigieburn is a one hour drive from Christchurch, the biggest city in New Zealand’s South Island. The race series is less about running gates and more about a good time with great mates.

Winding up the access road it’s easy to see that skiing in New Zealand is a bit different than most places. There are two types of fields here, commercial ski fields and club fields. The commercial varieties are the same as resorts the world over. But the club fields are a different kettle of fish altogether. Run by small ski clubs they lack the funding, infrastructure and resources of most resorts you have seen, unless of course you have skied in Eastern Europe.

The road is unsealed and only a car width wide, we switchback and forth up the mountain, gaining altitude with every turn. No gondolas here to get you to the snowline, only a road that could pass for a logging road if they spruced it up a bit. Obviously Craigieburn is a club field.

We pull into the lot and see a sea of familiar faces. Tele skiers have come from all over the country for a weekend of fun. Hand shakes and hugs for friends that live down the street or the other end of the island. We swap stories as we gear up. The tiny car park holds maybe fifty cars, before it has to go into the overflow, which is currently under four feet of snow. But our ramshackle collection of cars never touches the sides. The twenty cars make it a busy day.

I slip my climbing harness on and head for the tow. No high-speed quads here, this is the time machine. It could be our grandparents ski field, only rope tows will bring us to the goods. Attached to my harness is a metal clamp that looks a lot like a nutcracker and is called as such. I step up to the rope, which is moving three times as fast as the rope on the bunny slope you made those first little snowplow turns on. Grabbing on, I hold on for dear life as I flick the nutcracker onto the rope and let it take the weight. Sitting back in my harness I speed over the snow and take in the view.

Massive peaks surround us, steep gullies, open bowls, miles of skiable terrain everywhere I look. This really is a playground for adventure and I’m with the perfect crew to go and find some.

Two nutcrackers later and I’m at the top of the mountain. I breathe the cold mountain air as I wait for the gang to get to the top. The sun is bright and the sky is so blue that it fades to black. I feel like I am on the edge of space. All alone looking at the world below, my skis on my feet, I can’t imagine finding a better place to be.

I take one last look around as my friends start to arrive. Nothing is said, we just smile all knowing that we are thinking the very same things. There is an unspoken friendship, a brotherhood that gets reborn every time we ski. More than a community of like-minded skiers, but a feeling that I know these guys have my back if the slope rips or it gets rowdy in the pub.

We traverse to the left and have a look at what we had come for. The chutes stretch out in front of us. Like organ pipes four of them present themselves like options to be ticked. I like the looks of the first one and push myself over the edge. The first turn of the day is always a trip and this is no different.

Dropping over the micro cornice my left knee nearly crashes through my ski as the steepness slaps me in the face. “Alright here we go,” I snap a few quick turns before the slope gives up a bit and I’m able to let em’ run. Arcing a few 21st century turns I rip a super-G righthander and drop into the main basin. Passing the mid mountain lodge (shack) I snake turns through old bits of avo debris and crank three more before my quads start to explode. I look back at my line and smile. Smooth and fresh, all in bounds and a week after the storm.

Out left of my line Sophie cranks turns down her chute, it looks custom cut for her as she cranks a huge pow powerslide right and drops into the bowl. She puts pedal to metal and straightruns it out to where I stand. As she snows me we look back to see Taz ripping the third chute, banking huge cutbacks off the side, the spray hits the wind and mystifies like water. Two more turns and he makes the cut into the bowl, ripping a few Cadillac turns before stopping beside us. We try and take it in, gulping in air I look in amazement at the playground that we have at our disposal.

We jump on the nutcracker and beeline it to the top. As we hit the ridge it is time to race. First we crank off a fun slalom, complete with step up jump, cornice drop and some quick gates for the shin to win boys. After some instant noodles for chow we line up to drop into the left-hand basin for the Chinese downhill.

Soph and Taz flank me and we laugh about what we have already done for the day. Under starters orders now, we quiet down and I start to get a bit nervous. Standing on the line I look down the row and see friends, smiling and having a laugh. The start is only moment away now; I take one last look around and think how lucky we are to have this playground all to ourselves. There are so many lines to be done, more then we will ever have time to tick off.

It feels like the golden age, telemarking in New Zealand is exploding and we are right in the middle of it. Every winter more and more free heelers are coming out of the woodwork. Skiers are really starting to push themselves and redefine the boundaries of the possible. What was once regarded as a backcountry tool is now just another branch in the skiing tree. There is a feeling that the world is our oyster and being a telemarker right now is more exciting than ever. Before I have any more time to wax lyrical about tele skiing, I hear the words, “is everyone ready?” I think to myself, “oh yeah, we’re ready.”