The wind is full-on grinding me down. It seems as though New Zealand spring, traveling across the Southern Pacific, is locked in battle with our snow bound plateau high in the Southern Alps and for the past four days the wind gusts have been upwards of 85km/hr. Spring is losing, as it remains winter-like up here, but not for lack of effort. With about 5 days of substantial winds bombarding us, I'm starting to worry that if this keeps up my clothes are going to begin to resemble a tattered main sail of an 18th century Spanish Galion nearing retirement; in tatters, stained (in my case from sport drink that blows out of my drink belt in the short span between unscrewing the lid, and lifting it to my lips), weathered and derelict.

As per the norm at most training camps I attend throughout a season, my life has begun to morph into it's simplified one-dimensional world (which I adore, haha). As I cruise into the second week of this on-snow training camp up high on a barren high plateau –30 of my closest Canadian ski racing buddies and I are enjoying another stellar summer of skiing up here at the Snow Farm.

Although my life at times may seem glamorous, the above cities (excluding one) mentioned were just thrown in to get your attention. As random as that sounds – and the reality is that I've only ever stepped foot in two of them.