Neither my wife nor I are skiers. The sum total of my snow sportiness is a couple of slides down a small, slushy hill in a toboggan at age 10, while Felicity can lay claim to having thrown and received a few snowballs in her salad days. Little wonder, then, that it’s the lure of summer in the Snowy Mountains of southern New South Wales that has brought us here on a lonely summer drive on the Kosciuszko highway to the tiny hamlet of Charlotte Pass and what promises to be a clear view of the great mountain.
Through the windscreen, I can see the brittle landscape baking in the summer sun. Between the sparse vegetation, rocks and dead trees jut out like splinters. Flecks of green occasionally break up the barren earth, while the cold mountain winds beat relentlessly against the car as we wind our way onwards.
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