This trip was doomed from the beginning," I concluded, as we regarded the turn-off we missed on our way to Queenstown last Friday.
The route is fairly well identified by a large green sign, yet somehow it had eluded all five of us and we had travelled on, unaware of our misdirection, until we hit Kaitangata.
After seeking advice from a petrol station, a tavern, my Dad, and arguing among ourselves at every intersection from then on, we finally arrived at Queenstown.
I immediately reflected on my conclusion and decided that "complicated" was a better description than "doomed". When I made that statement, we were still at least one (icy) hour or two from home, and so deeming the trip as "doomed" made me feel a little uneasy.
We had known that it was going to snow on Sunday - we had seen the symbolic snowflake over Queenstown on the weather map.
What we didn't realise was that this was to be the snowfall of the century (or the past 16 years, or the decade, or whatever catchphrase the snow statisticians are boasting today.) And so, like many holidaymakers, we were unable to drive home.
But we soon realised that such complications aren't always negative - Queenstown is definitely not the worst location in which one could be stranded. This extra time for shopping, reading, drinking coffee and eating hot churros made for an even better holiday than planned.
No, the trip certainly wasn't "doomed".
Complications, unlike damnation, are generally manageable. And if they do happen to be unmanageable (as was the task of driving back up the frozen hill to the apartment) then they are usually avoidable. We parked the car in town, and ascended the hill on foot.
We filled our bags with only essential food and clothing (and hair-dryers, lecture-readings and laptops) and, looking like a little line of sherpas, trekked upwards.
However, we were far less skilled at climbing than the Nepalese: "Three steps forward, two steps back," became our literal mantra.
Going uphill was difficult, but not quite as challenging as trying to get back down. The flipside of this complication was that we found descending to be a great way to meet people.
Each morning, groups of people would tiptoe down the hill ... everyone trying not to be the first to slip. But when someone did slip, both the physical and the proverbial ice were shattered as anyone nearby offered an arm to help.
As we picked our way down the white hillside on Monday morning, a man who was walking up the hill, towards us, stopped and held out his arms. "I will catch you when you slip!" he shouted.
We did slip, so did he, and of course no-one caught anyone. But I smiled to see the effect of a positive attitude in the face of complication.
Anyway, I'd better let you know that we did arrive home - I'm not writing this in some igloo on the side of the highway (although my flat is so cold, that's not really a stretch of the imagination). We weren't doomed, after all. It was just a rather complicated trip.
And not entirely fruitlessly complicated, for without it, I'm not quite sure what I would have written for today. That's always the best result of any complication: a story. We laughed, and I smiled, because I was reminded that a positive attitude is truly unbeatable.
The same sense of communality was shown on Sunday, when we tried to leave Queenstown for the first time. We were just about to ascend the Devils Staircase when the long line of traffic in front of us ceased to move any further.
Over an hour later, there was still no movement of traffic. People left their cars to play in the snow, go for a walk, chat with new neighbours. Finally, upon the recommendation of a nice lady in the know, we turned around.
As we passed carrot-nosed, stick-armed snowmen in the street, I was reminded of Janet Frame's (very long) short story, Snowman, Snowman.
It's a rather clever story involving a conversation between a snowflake and a snowman, toying with the typical themes of existence, identity and mortality. Basically, the Perpetual Snowflake explains to the Snowman that his time on earth is very limited, because he is melting.
The story therefore suggests that a snowflake has some kind of a sense of mortality.
- Katie Kenny studies English at the University of Otago.
