That Day the Snow Changed Me

That Day the Snow Changed Me

We had talked about travelling to the snow more times than I could count. It was always one of those things we said we would do one day — to the point of purchasing ski gear from a garage sale, as if we were somehow manifesting the dream.

I’m not sure how the idea first came about, but I remember it was Ray who suggested it.

I knew the decision meant bending the rules, something I wasn’t comfortable with.

Ray was right, though, when he said, “What are you going to remember looking back — the time you chucked a sickie from work, or the first time you saw snow?”

He always had a way of making me see things clearly.

“Bugger it… let’s just do it,” I said.

We needed to leave while it was still dark, which meant avoiding the Sydney morning rush hour. So, I rang work and left my best Academy Award performance on voicemail, hoping my excuse would hold until Monday.

Like excited children, we packed up old Sally and left before dawn. Ray would do most of the driving, and I would take over when he grew tired.

We hit the South Eastern Freeway without fuss and were soon on our way. The city roads snapped shut behind us, leaving the noise and routine where it belonged.

We were well into our journey when the first hint of dawn struggled against soft grey cloud, painting the winter sky with wisps of silver light.

The highway stretched ahead, bordered by open farmland where the silhouettes of cows grazed quietly, their heads bowed among the dew-covered grass.

The sun rose sleepily over the distant hills, and as it broke free from the parting clouds, the world around us slowly came to life.

We reduced our speed a little to appreciate the sights, while cars overtook us — always in a hurry.

Ray had a way of living in the moment that I admired. I was trying, but it didn’t come naturally to me. My mind still wandered to work, to responsibilities, to all the things waiting for me back home.

Even so, as we drove on together, I caught myself letting go, if only for a little while.

It felt like the beginning of something.

I wound down the window and stuck my head out. The country air felt different from anything I was used to, but it filled my lungs.

“This feels like life!” I yelled.

Ray laughed and reached across to gently pull me back inside.

“Hey, Bubs... look.”

On the horizon, faint blue-grey shapes began to rise.

At first, they looked like shadows against the winter sky. But slowly, they came into focus.

The Snowy Mountains.

A rest stop appeared ahead, and we were grateful for the chance to stretch our legs. The bitter chill struck the moment we climbed from the car. It was sharper, cleaner — a cold unlike anything we had experienced before.

We opened the back passenger door to pull on our jackets, beanies and gloves. Even then, there was something about the winter mountain air that made us breathe a little deeper.

Until Ray lit a cigarette.

I grabbed the map from the glove box and handed it to him. He spread it across the bonnet of the sedan.

A rooster appeared unexpectedly through a hole in the fence of a nearby property, pecking among the scattered rubbish. A couple parked nearby threw him a scrap of crust from their sandwich.

It was then I noticed how much litter had been left behind, despite a perfectly good bin sitting nearby.

I took out my disposable camera and clicked away, snapping a photo of Ray as he concentrated on the map.

He found a freshwater stream about five kilometres off the main road — somewhere we could drive Sally without getting stuck.

I climbed into the driver’s seat and took over the wheel, while Ray sat beside me, map in hand.

I laughed when he managed to get us lost at least twice, and I was glad it wasn’t on my watch. I wouldn’t have heard the end of it.

“It’s not rocket science,” he’d have teased if I’d been the one navigating.

We followed the map until the bitumen gave way to dirt, and we knew we were close when the road narrowed into the surrounding scrub.

We pulled into a little bush clearing tucked into the side of the road and parked the car.

Ray grabbed a couple of empty plastic drinking bottles and handed one to me.

“C’mon,” he said excitedly. “Follow me.”

We got out of the car and walked a few metres to the creek. Snow gums lined its bank, their pale trunks and twisted branches creating an almost ethereal scene beneath the winter sky.

A shallow creek wound its way between the gums, its pebbled bed visible beneath the crystal-clear water, the exposed stones glistening in the morning sun. Its gentle trickle filled my ears as it disappeared around the bend.

The occasional birdsong drifted through the trees.

Ray wandered a little upstream, where the creek tumbled softly over moss-covered rocks. He stepped carefully over the stones and crouched beside the running water, filling his bottle without a second thought.

He had no hesitation. That was Ray — confident, adventurous, and always ready to believe the best in every moment.

I trusted him enough to follow.

Something stirred behind us, then scurried into the scrub, leaving only the rustle of leaves in its wake. I jumped.

Ray smiled. “Probably just a lizard we disturbed, warming itself in the sun.”

We headed back to the car with the bottles and placed them in the boot beside the esky.

Hurrying into our seats, we started the engine and waited for the heater to chase away the cold from our fingers as we rubbed our hands together.

Back on the road towards Jindabyne, Ray reached for the radio, searching through the stations until a newsreader’s voice broke through the static.

A weather warning had been issued for the Snowy Mountains, with a snowstorm moving towards the Jindabyne area and reports of snowfall already reaching the town.

We looked at each other.

Ray reached over and patted my knee.

“It’ll be right, Bubs. I can’t see it affecting Jindabyne too much. It’ll probably pass over. No need to worry about something that might not happen.”

His confidence was steady, as always.

We weren’t travelling any further from Jindabyne by car.

Our plan was to wing it, find a bed and breakfast lodge at Jindabyne, then make our way to Perisher the following day. We would catch the Skitube up the mountain, buy our lift tickets, and hire our ski gear before trying our hand at the slopes.

Ray wanted to try snowboarding. He was good on the skateboard and a keen surfer.

“We’re making good time,” I said.

Ray nodded. “We sure are. Woohoo!”

His excitement was impossible not to catch. Others might not have understood why this meant so much to us, but we didn’t care.

This was us.

We had only been together for six months, but I could already feel his optimism beginning to rub off on me. I wasn’t used to it, to be honest.

I came from a family of pessimists.

As we continued towards Jindabyne, the weather ahead became harder to ignore. Dark clouds gathered over the mountains, swallowing the peaks beneath their heavy grey cover.

We exited the highway near Cooma, where the road began to wind towards the mountains. We passed a service station with a sign out the front advertising snow chain hire — a reminder that we would soon be seeing snow.

Until this point, we believed we would reach Jindabyne without needing tyre chains.

I was becoming apprehensive until Ray spoke up. He had a habit of reading my facial expressions.

“Maybe we should grab some,” Ray said. “Whatcha think? Just to be safe.”

I loved how his confidence about life never showed up as arrogance. He had such a fine balance between believing everything would be okay and knowing when to be sensible.

That was what drew me to him in the first place, despite our ten-year age gap.

We pulled in and, after a quick tutorial, thanked the attendant and continued on our way.

As we drove further along, the first snow began to fall. The flakes were so light and delicate that we became enchanted. Ray wound down his window and reached his arm out to feel them.

The flakes melted against his skin, and for a moment we forgot everything except the magic of finally seeing snow.

This was what we had come for.

But as we continued towards Jindabyne, the weather ahead became harder to ignore. The snowfall grew heavier, the flakes thickening as they swept across the windscreen.

Ray adjusted the wipers as the snow fell more steadily, and the excitement of seeing it slowly gave way to a growing concern that conditions were changing.

We approached a road closure where a line of cars had come to a standstill, some already turning back to where they’d come from.

Through the steady snowfall, an electronic sign glowed ahead, its amber letters cutting through the white.

HEAVY SNOWFALL AHEAD

SNOW CHAINS BEYOND THIS POINT

The wonder of the moment was still there, but now it was joined by a feeling I couldn’t ignore — something wasn’t right.

The wind began to rise. Powerful gusts swept across the mountain pass.

The storm struck the car, making Sally shudder. It howled, deafening, rattling the metal as we sat there.

Within moments, the world beyond the windscreen began to disappear. The mountains were swallowed by a thick curtain of snow, and the vehicles ahead of us seemed to dissolve into the whiteness, their hazard lights flickering like distant stars.

I looked at Ray as panic surfaced, my eyes widening as I realised how quickly everything had changed.

He reached over and took my hands, looking straight into my eyes.

“Look at me,” he said calmly. “Our first of many mishaps we’ll ride out together.”

He nodded, reassuring me.

“Okay? Just breathe.”

And in that moment, something shifted inside me.

I had spent so much of my life expecting the worst. I had learned to look for what could go wrong before allowing myself to enjoy what was right in front of me.

But Ray didn’t live that way.

He didn’t ignore the dangers. He simply refused to let fear steal the moment.

I looked at him and realised I had fallen in love with this guy.

Slowly, the storm began to dissipate. The snow settled into a gentle fall, and the world outside the car began to return.

“See,” he said happily. “All gone.”

Ray eased the car a little further onto the side of the road and switched off the ignition. He reached behind the seat and pulled out the bag containing our snow boots.

We slipped them on, and moments later, he pushed open the door, sending the layer of snow that had gathered along its edge tumbling onto the ground before stepping out.

Sensing my hesitation, Ray came around to my side of the car, brushed the snow away, and opened my door, offering me his hand.

I looked at it for a moment. Suddenly, I understood what he had been showing me all along — that life was meant to be embraced, not feared.

I took his hand and stepped out.

The cold air brushed my face. I looked up, closed my eyes, and stuck my tongue out to catch the snowflakes.

I didn’t have to think about it. For the first time in my life, I simply allowed myself to be amazed.

We noticed a lookout nearby and walked over. Standing there beside Ray, it felt as though everything that had weighed on me before had disappeared. The mountains stretched before us, silent beneath their fresh blanket of snow.

I felt something I wasn’t used to feeling — a sense of peace. Moments earlier, the storm had filled me with fear and uncertainty. Now, everything around us felt still and full of possibility.

We returned to the car, where other travellers were beginning to fit their snow chains before continuing their journey.

As Ray reached for the door to let me back in, I stopped him, pulled him close, and kissed him.

He looked at me, surprised. “What was that for?”

I smiled. “Because I love you.”

As I stood there, I realised something.

The snow had not changed the mountains.

It had changed me.

I learned that life was not about waiting until everything felt safe before taking the next step. Sometimes you had to leave the familiar behind, face the storm, and trust that when it passed, something beautiful would be waiting on the other side.

I can’t believe that was thirty-five years ago.

Ray has been gone barely a year now, but I still remember that day as if it happened yesterday.

The storm, the snow, and the moment he reached for my hand — those memories remain with me.

I don’t think I would have chased my dreams with the same courage if it wasn’t for him.

And every time I step forward into something uncertain, I still feel the warmth of the hand that first taught me to believe.