Confessions of a Ski Doctor

Do the mountains call you? No, me neither. This makes my decision to abandon azure tropical water, dolphins, t-shirts and shorts, for ice, 15 layers of wool and frosted extremities, somewhat strange. To be a doctor working on a ski field is a calling, it has to be as the pay is about as appealing as that muddy, gritty, icy sludge you get on your boots in a mountain car park. However, despite the common misconception, money is not a doctor’s only motivation. This year I have decided to spend four months in a winter playground, hopefully not stuck to a frozen swing.


The lift of the plane’s wheels broke my final connection with the ‘lucky country’. Three days of travelling south, watching the thermometer sink, brewing a solid blood clot, my wife and I arrived in Central Otago. A land of rugged men, snowy hills and women with very homely sized ‘quater acres out back’. The doctor title comes in handy when you come head to head with snowboarding ferals trying to rent a two-bedroom apartment for eight. Accommodation is the bain of life in this area during ski season and a word for the wise, organise it early. Bleary eyed from three days of avoiding opposums and road rage, we were greeted by a rental agent informing us of how our accommodation had been rearranged for three weeks due to the family of the owner’s decision to extend their stay. I imagined myself strangling that little blonde kid off Silver Spoons (a shite American sitcom with a dwarf called Arnold). “I hope they don’t get sick.” I thought, taking note of the name on the contract.


After we got over the initial welcome and the subsequent tantrum displayed by the agent when I told them how I was ‘a little disappointed’ we settled in. The area is a picturesque lake surrounded by unfathomably beautiful mountains. The town sleepy yet infiltrated with jet setters and elite sports people or both. My job is split between a general practice in town and a ski doctor on the mountain. Just one problem... there’s no snow.