Daisy Dumas ventures beyond the patrolled zone to experience the extremes of remote backcountry skiing.
There are no lifts to take you there, no hot chocolates halfway and no ski patrols manning the slopes for your convenience. There is, however, a guaranteed long, uphill slog and the sheer bliss of a descent that has been earned the hard way.
It has taken 34 years for me to strap skins to the undersides of touring skis and hike, rather than rely on ski lifts, to the tops of mountains I want to ski down.
I've trudged many times, skis strapped to my backpack, to find clean powder in Canada and Europe, but this is the first time I've gone the whole hog, trekking into the high wilderness and bunkering down overnight to find hidden valleys, remote steeps and the deep sense of stillness that comes from leaving civilisation for days. Ski touring is as much about communing with remoteness and silence as it is about the rush of powder skiing. It is a sport that rewards the determined and the patient. 
So, as our chorizo sizzles on a gas burner that is punching through the minus-5-degree night sky and gusty winds, not quite sheltered by a half snow cave we have dug into the side of a deep wind-lip, sharing mugs of red wine, I do a quick life stocktake. Here I am, in the pitch black, at 1850 metres, about to sleep on the snow, in the freezing cold, in an area I know almost nothing about, with no phone reception, little decent warmth and almost nothing in the way of creature comforts.
Yesterday I was at work in Sydney. As uncomfortable as the cold may be, this is a true break from the city. It's a deliciously unnerving, awakening feeling.
We didn't sleep, or at least Tim, my boyfriend and trip photographer, didn't. Nor did Adam West, one of our guides, whose inflated sleeping mat went "pfff" in the night. Still, there's nothing like waking up in a snow camp, in spitting distance of Australia's highest point, 2228-metre Mount Kosciuszko, to blue skies, clean air and fresh tracks as far as the eye can see.
Like backcountry, sidecountry - or lift-accessed backcountry - skiing has soared in popularity in North America and Europe in recent years, fuelled by access to once-specialist equipment, extreme-skiing films and the marketability of stretches of resort-side powder that don't require a two-day hike to reach.
Loop around a fence to reach fresh powder just metres from a piste and you've made it into the sidecountry. It's no wonder, then, that the label has been criticised for giving skiers a false sense of security. Simply because you can see a piste marker or a T-bar from where you are, it's still the backcountry when it comes to the risks involved.
But as much as the backcountry may beckon, there is no way skiers and snowboarders should tackle the unpatrolled unless they are educated in its shifting, inspiring and at times malevolent ways.
Understanding and being ready for what lies beyond the patrolled zone is a non-negotiable element of backcountry skiing and a lesson that many Australians would do well to learn before they take on the backcountry pitches of North America and beyond. The United States recorded nine deaths from avalanches in its 2014-15 season. Seventy-five avalanche deaths had been recorded across Europe by   February 10 of the 2014-15 season.
Australia's backcountry is not especially avalanche prone, but slides are not uncommon. Snowboarders Martie Buckland and Daniel Kerr died in an avalanche less than a kilometre from their campsite on Mount Bogong in the Victorian Alps last winter, even though they were equipped with avalanche beacons, probes and shovels.
They say there is more snow cover in Australia than there is in Switzerland. We mightn't have the steeps of Europe or the powder of Japan, but we do have a booming ski market and a relatively easily accessible and stable backcountry playground that lends itself to the touring newcomer.
What started as a "bit of fun" for Dave Herring, his wife, Pieta, and their friend, Adam, has morphed into Main Range Backcountry guiding, providing backcountry ski touring, avalanche safety and mountaineering courses in the Snowy Mountains. Based in Jindabyne, the pioneering outfit has Canadian Avalanche Association qualifications and a vast knowledge of the area and the need for safe and sustainable touring training. The three are laid-back and good fun, their stories as forthcoming as their wisdom, from their duty of care towards Kosciuszko National Park to Adam's anecdotes from his annual Splitfest festival.
The spring sun hadn't even heated up on the morning we lumbered towards Thredbo's Kosciuszko Express chairlift on our hired touring kit - Harro's Snowsports at Lake Crackenback has plenty of experience in this area - armed with a $35 single-ascent lift ticket. We were carrying everything we'd need for the overnight trip: tents, food, cooking equipment, an avalanche pack and medical kit, back-up skins and tech gear, clothing, sleeping bags, inflatable sleeping mats, personal stuff, water and poo tubes.
Bearing in mind that everything has to be taken off the mountain with us, plastic bags of human waste have to be stuffed into rigid plastic tubes, stoppered and tied to the outside of our packs. This is about the only time when the freezing weather comes in handy, rendering the tubes' contents as odourless as they are rock solid. Still, it's not a pretty process.
Skiing uphill in ski boots and wearing heavy backpacks is not easy. Water is constantly at hand, as are the chocolates and nuts we've brought.
Camp, tucked into a wind-lip and under a sharp, boulder-edged rock formation, took an hour or so of digging and stomping to create. We made flat, hard-packed bases for tents, a snow table and chairs, and protection from the winds that are forecast during the night.
Dave dug a box-shaped hole into the side of a deep, clean snow wall, leaving a downward-pointing cone of snow on its upper side. He sat a pot under the cone, which soon began to drip, providing water for tea or coffee later.
Around us, the Ramsheads, Lake Cootapatamba, Rawson Pass and Seaman's Hut were shrouded by thick clouds. The only way to fight the chill was to keep moving.
Leaving our boots in walk mode, we hooked, coaxed and eventually stuck our skins, onto our skis. We lengthened our ski poles and clipped into the fronts of the touring bindings, allowing full movement of our heels. We inched out of camp, heading uphill and south-west towards Leatherbarrel Creek. Along the way, Adam "checked in" on a GPS chart plotting our course so our progress could be scrutinised at Main Range Backcountry's headquarters.
Heavy clouds rolled in and, after a dream-like, half-kilometre ski on spring powder, ending only when we reached naked, silver gum trees, we had a long climb back to our base, the sun setting as we arrived in a late season whiteout.
The next day, after that stunted sleep, it's a different story when we clip into our bindings and start walking towards Kosciuszko. The bowl where the headwaters of the Snowy River rise is infamous for disorientation in bad weather, but today its harsher side is hard to appreciate under clear skies and with the twinkle of snow crystals lighting up every ridge and gully.
We push beyond the tracks left by others to the south-eastern tip of the summit and, removing our skins and clicking our boots into ski mode, drop onto the flawless steep, our whooping group leaving chains of figures of eights behind as we go.
TRIP NOTES
GETTING THERE
Drive from Sydney, six hours, or fly to Canberra and drive 2\xC2&#189; hours.
STAYING THERE
Stay in Jindabyne then camp with Main Range Backcountry (MRBC). For accommodation details, see nationalparks.nsw.gov.au/Kosciuszko-National-Park/Jindabyne-Visitor-Centre/tourist-information
SEE + DO
Main Range Backcountry has a range of avalanche training, alpine touring, backcountry skills tours and mountaineering courses. A four-hour backcountry touring skills course for two people is $100pp. Prices for longer courses and overnight tours on request. See mrbc.com.au.
For touring skis rental, see Harro's Snowsports, harrosnowsports.com.au.
MORE INFORMATION
mrbc.com.au
The writer was a guest of Main Range Backcountry.