My first overseas adventure came to fruition when I was a twenty year old. The day after my final university exam, with a Bachelor of Science metaphorically tucked under my arm, I boarded a plane in Sydney, bound for Los Angeles. This journey was the brain child of some university friends, and as is the Australian way we were all signed up to work abroad for the winter, plying our various trades at ski resorts in Colorado and California. 

Despite the apparent cultural similarities between Australia and the U.S.A. those first 48 hours were amongst the most nerve wracking that I had ever experienced. Whilst I'm not necessarily a mummy's boy (my parents had moved interstate when I was 18 and I chose to stay behind), I still felt that I had lived a somewhat easy life in the cocoon that had been my existence. The subtle variations that I was immediately exposed to upon disembarkation at LAX really took me off guard. 

Example 1: The first words spoken to me were by a girl that was also part of this Australian work abroad congregation, and she paid me an unsolicited compliment. I near threw myself in front of a taxi, so unexpected was this change.

Example 2: First meal was a sandwich from a small cafe near the hotel. Reverting to my Strayan lingo I asked for the bread and meat combo "take away". This resulted in what felt like 27 minutes of confused back and forward between me and the waitress. Eventually, after the interjection of confused bystanders, we settled on "to go" as she realised I wasn't planning some terrorist type attack on her civil liberties.

Example 3: Walking to get dinner at McDonalds. Firstly, Maccas is not acknowledged as the trading name of the institution that is the Golden Arches (Micky Dee's is apparently acceptable). Secondly, just because you can see said Golden Arches on the horizon does not mean walking there in the dead of night is a great idea. Approximately half way there, which was way too far from the beginning or the end to make a hasty retreat, a young rapscallion on a Huffy BMX started riding smaller and smaller concentric circles around my person.

He had a lovely 10mm gauge chain hanging from his belt and politely questioned "you're not from around here are you boy?".

I timidly responded with a "No".

He burst into laughter, deep maniacal laughter.

I experienced a little light bladder leakage.

He asked me to say "Beer".

I said "What"?

"Beer"

"Beer?"

In hysterics now, "Yeah, say 'Fosters, it's Australian for Beer'".

I comply, somewhat confused.

More laughter and he rides off laughing, "Stay safe Maaate".

The Chicken McNugget sauces are not the same.

My transit in LA concluded with a trip to Disneyland, because nothing says life changing experience like waiting 3 hours in line to go on the Indiana Jones ride and paying $18 for a cheeseburger.

The next destination was to be Silver Creek Ski Area,  near Granby, Colorado (these days it goes by the name Sol Vista Basin). I had nominated to go to the smallest resort possible, because people scare me - which in hindsight was an error in judgement, sometimes you don't want to be where everybody knows your name.

I'd been employed, sight unseen, to work as a ski instructor for young kids. For those of you who have been to the snow in Australia, it really isn't a grounding for competence in anything other than recovering when you slip on hard packed ice, but here I was on day 1, snow falling, about to teach my first class featuring 5 young four year olds. I quickly learnt the lesson, 

"To get by in life, speak confidently and know just a little bit more than those you are talking to"

In this instance I spoke funny, and my bright yellow instructor outfit was distracting enough to cover for all subsequent incompetence. The first week of lessons, I didn't once use my skis.

I collected so many memories over my six months in Colorado, it truly was a blessing that I consider myself fortunate to have had. Amongst the best of them:

• As a passenger driving home from Thanksgiving dinner, we saw our first deer. We then proceeded to hit that very same deer with the car. He made a lot more noise as he rolled over us car than I though he would.
• The young girl, so terrified of being on the chairlift that she thought it a good idea to jump off prior to the top station. She was only little, so it wasn't too hard to catch and hold her - the dislocated shoulder she suffered as a result, not so easy to explain away.
• The more I instructed the better I got, even transitioning to snowboard instructing. With the senior instructor calling in sick, I had to teach some young blokes to ride in the terrain park. Demonstrating a frontside air in the half pipe, imagine my dismay when on returning to earth I was no longer in the pipe, but landed on the deck and dislocated my shoulder. Somewhere the parents of a small girl laughed and three boys realised I was living a charade.
• Being invited to prom the following year by some girls who I taught to ride whilst they were on winter break from Atlanta (I flew back 12 months later and attended, but that is another story).

But amidst many wonderful adventures, one day alone stands out. So if I haven't yet sent you to sleep, please read on.

This memorable day started the night before at a meeting of the Silver Creek United Nations. Represented at the table were myself (Australia), my friend (South Africa), and a couple we knew (U.S.A. and Ireland). As we sat around a table at the bar, drinking cheap beer and eating free pizza, we perused a trail map for Winter Park ski area plotting our plan of attack for the following day. U.S.A. was far and away the most experienced our quartet, South Africa somewhat new to the party, Ireland and myself whilst competent were probably spurred on by liquid confidence. The day was planned, meeting location decided and and we retreated to our respective domiciles in anticipation.

What follows could be politely described as a clusterfuck:

1. First run of the day, double black diamond chutes - no point warming into it. I negotiate the chutes well enough, but fail to fully rotate a jump at the bottom, catch my heal edge and knock myself out. Half an hour and a couple of small vomies later I decide that no one has ever died from a concussion and carry on.

2. U.S.A (since it is his local mountain) then takes us up three consecutive lifts until we are at the highest point of the resort, proceeds to take his board off and keep walking higher, ducks the boundary rope and straps back in.

Now I like rules, order is important and anarchy scares me. But the one think I like more than rules is not looking foolish, so I follow.

Riding waist deep snow between trees barely spaced far enough apart to fit a board between, we make our way down the mountain, in the opposite direction of civilisation. Because all of a sudden it seems we have become safety conscious, it is decided by the four of us to stop every 3-4  turns and regroup to make sure no one gets lost. This follows on for some time with good success; confidence is building, hooting and a hollering echos through the closely packed trees, until!

South Africa is missing. For thirty minutes we yell, scream and scramble around looking for him. The snow is too deep and the mountain too steep to climb back up for any real distance, all we can do is yell. For thirty minutes our yells are met with no response. The pitch of our voices raises to that of a catholic boys choir as our desperation increases. We couldn't send anyone ahead, for now that we were three any separation of the group means we have again left someone on their own. In a state of panic, we reach the consensus that we have no idea where we are, no idea where our friend is, and the only solution is for all three of us to ride on, cross our fingers and hope for the best whilst silently accepting we may have just pushed South Africa to extinction.

Strapping back in, pretending the frozen ice on our faces isn't the product of tears, we set off.

"WAIT FOR ME YOU ARSEHOLES!!!!"

South African had returned, and was moderately pissed we were leaving, but significantly relieved that we had not. Now looking decidedly caucasian as opposed to his normal complexion, and exponentially more sweaty than someone who had spent the afternoon watching cops, South Africa spent the next little while recovering and explaining how he had found himself stuck, full body, down a tree well. He was genuinely lucky, and to this day I am amazed we got him back without any additional drama.

3. Reunited, we rode on, in no particular direction other than down. Emerging from the longest couple of hours of our life we strode from the woods onto the shoulder of the I40 highway, some 5 miles from the resort where we had started. South Africa was exhausted, I was concussed and the headache was now moving beyond a subtle inconvenience, whilst U.S.A. and Ireland just seemed relieved to be near some form of civilisation.

We started to hitch hike back to the resort, four of us and our snowboards, slowly trudging along the side of the road.

It didn't take long for someone to stop and offer us a ride. A young skier, in a two seat red Jeep Wrangler - who had already picked up another skier further up the road. By my math six into two didn't really work, especially along a major highway. I was wrong!!!

South Africa and Ireland clambered in behind the driver and her passenger, wedging their frames between the sets of skis. U.S.A and I passed them four boards to hold, at which point all space was gone - but not all hope. We left the rear door of the Jeep open, climbed onto the bumper, held onto the roof racks and set off. I tell you now, there is nothing colder than driving at speed along the highway in the mountains, hands frozen, when letting go is not an option.

4. Safely back at the base of the resort, feeling slowly returning to our extremities courtesy of the largest hot chocolates imaginable, the pain in my head a dull throb thanks to what would have been enough pain killers to kill a small donkey, the United Nations again gathered to consider our next mandate.

South Africa and I smiled and waved politely as U.S.A. and Ireland continued to fight the good fight, we were happy to cut our losses and for the adventure to be done. Little did we know the highlight was yet to come.

Our preferred mode of transport was bus, but the next one home wasn't due for another three hours, so again we set off hitching. A ride was not as forthcoming this time around, and we walked for what felt like a good hour in the snow before someone finally took pity on us.

An old Ford pick up truck, rusted and with a cracked windscreen, pulled over to pick us up. We threw our boards in the back and jumped in, three wide across the bench seat in front and grateful for our night in shining armour. I took middle seat, fumbled for the belt and gave up when I realised the frayed ends were representative of it being cut through some years earlier.

Jokingly, I suggested "did your last intended victim have to cut their way out?"

Slowly, much like one of those side show attractions where clowns turn their heads as you feed them ping pong balls, he turned to face me. His armour didn't seem so shiny anymore, more flannelly and dirty, and he smelt a bit like bourbon too.

"If I fucking wanted you to speak I would have asked you a question".

South Africa and I took this directive to mean business, especially when he tapped the hunting rifle positioned on his dashboard.

Thirty minutes later he slowed down, no he didn't stop, but he slowed at our destination, before driving off with our boards still in the back. I managed to salvage mine but South Africa's was a rental, so no real effort was required.

Our day finished at the same bar that it had started at the night before. This time though the beer and pizza was all the sweeter, as we sat laughing and reflecting on the day that had been. All that was left was to plan where we would go next.