Winter 1973 finds me living in the Five Ways Paddington, scouring the Sydney Morning Herald for snow jobs - any job would do. I felt hemmed in by Sydney and that it was time to venture forth to the Snowy Mountains again. 

Chance dictated that the first vacancy that came up was a position at the Kosciuszko Chalet situated at Charlotte Pass, which boasts being the birthplace of skiing in Australia. It was the smallest, highest and most beautiful ski resort in Australia. A grand old stone building, totally snow bound. It looked like a French Chateau that had been plucked out of the European Alps and dropped into the Australian Alps. Akin to the Hydro Majestic in the Blue Mountains with classic old world charm, there was not a skerrick of cold modern minimalist furniture in sight - thankfully.

Walking out of the cold, windy environment into the rustic high ceilinged room one feels transported back in time. Heavy velvet drapes, wood panelling, robust antique furnishings, sepia photos on the wall depicting skiers in the 20’s and 30’s. Open fires are used to keep the rooms warm, the gentle crackling inviting guests to take a seat and slowly sip some gluhwein to ‘warm the cockles of their hearts’.

I was a staff member of the hotel doing the most menial job with the greatest amount of free time on snow. Snow that didn’t come! For most of that winter the only skiable snow was near the summit or over the Snowy River to the main range. It was accessible only on foot. 

The guests would be driven along the road to the summit to ski the drifts at Rawsons Pass. The ‘hard core’ members of the staff would climb up to Carruthers peak. After crossing the Snowy River (in our bare feet) we would then have to climb for at least two hours in our heavy alpine boots to the peak, then strap on our skis and schuss back home. 

The experience was arduous, freezing and thrilling. This behaviour demonstrates how deeply the lust for snow ran in our souls. There was no job too hard, no accommodation too wretched, and no conditions too miserable to prevent us from attempting to get the tips of our skis pointing downhill. A form of divine madness, I feel.

The lack of snow however did not dampen the ‘fun factor’ for both staff and guests. The jazz band Galapagos Duck were our residential band for most of the winter. They were a wonderful source of entertainment. What more could we ask for?  Maybe a good supply of hash for some and brandy for others?



The night life was fabulous and quiet often lasted till the first rose glow of sunrise appeared over the horizon turning the landscape into fields of sparkling crystals. We were all escapees from the city enjoying the freedom of the mountains and the companionship of our newfound friends.

I recognise that Charlotte Pass does not have the long and challenging runs of the larger ski resorts however it more than makes up for that with its ambience. It may be flawed bliss, but I draw comfort from the existence of a place that has bravely shunned the vagaries of fashion. It celebrates the grandeur of small things.