7:00 am
Darkness is like a cocoon over the silent town. The air is like a freezer, still and cold. When the wind gusts it is like a sheet of ice whistling through the air. Frost bathes the grass, the waning moon illuminating it like a thousand jewels.
Huddled figures stand on the kerb, hidden under layers of wool and down. From gaping yawns puffs of air condense like smoke. Feet stamp in sleepy impatience.
A soft purr is heard through the inky darkness. Ears prick up and white faces turn towards the welcoming sound. The purr becomes a growl and then in a roar of noise and diesel fumes a convoy of Landrover troopies appear. Figures clamber into the cars and are instantly gratified by the blast of hot air from the heaters. Mumbled introductions are made then each person retreats back into their jackets, seeking solace in the darkness.
And then light! A fiery explosion of gold and persimmon appears from the west. It is like the depths of Mordor have been lit as the colours intensify and brighten. The sun rises over the jagged mountain range sending unnatural light across the land. Lethargic figures fumble for their sunglasses, retreating deeper into their jackets trying to escape the harshness.
As the Landrover comes to the bottom of the access road, a transformation comes over its passengers. The sun seems to give the power of speech, and after hesitant introductions there is laughter and story telling.
I sit with twelve other people from around the world, brought here by one thing. Snow. As we drive round the final bend of the access road there is a collective silence. Within the blanket of whiteness, lights twinkle from the base lodge. The six seater lift, silent and motionless, leads the eye some two thousand metres above sea level to the top of the mountain range. Black jagged rocks line the peaks like teeth.
This is Treble Cone, our very own playground for the 2005 winter season.
