After swallowing her fear and trying to snowboard, Juliet Rowan came away from the slopes with nothing broken.
The scariest thing about learning to snowboard is the anticipation. No sooner do I mention that I am going to spend two days on Mt Ruapehu's learner slopes than the warnings start.
Several friends tell me to be careful, I might get hurt. One says she broke her arm the first day she tried.
Even Ruapehu's marketing manager Mike Smith has few words of comfort. "Yes," he says, "we don't have a great track record with journalists."
It's hardly surprising I feel nervous when Mike arrives at my hotel in Ohakune at 8am on a clear, crisp day to take me up the Turoa field.
Hoping to persuade my tutors to be gentle I tell Mike I have a particular interest in not getting hurt because I'm going overseas in a few days' time. I think it works because he tells my snowboarding instructor, a Londoner named Howard Denton, "Don't break her, okay?"
We collect my lift pass, boots and board at Turoa's new one-stop ticketing and rental shop. Getting the board involves questions I can't give the right the answers to.
"Do you surf?"
"No."
"Do you skateboard?"
"No."
"Do you wakeboard?"
"No."
And, obviously as a last resort, "Do you slide across the kitchen floor in your socks?"
"Yes," I reply meekly.
"And which foot do you put forward?"
"I don't know."
At this point, the woman asking the questions turns me round and gives me a gentle shove on the back. I fall forward, landing on my right foot.
"Ah, a goofy," she says.
"Goofy", I'm told, is a surfing term for people who lead with their right foot rather than the majority left.
"There's no shame in being goofy," Mike says, seeing my doubting face.
Goofy is also an apt term to describe most of my movements in my first two-hour private lesson with Howard.
After strapping me into my bindings, he spends a good chunk of the time holding my hands as I edge the board down the beginners' slope.
He also has to haul me to my feet after multiple unsuccessful attempts to get on the pommel lift, which must be grabbed firmly but not relied on for balance.
By the end of the two hours, I feel physically fine but mentally dysfunctional. Filled with a confusing array of new information about edges, glides and turns, my mind is unable to translate any more of his instructions into actions.
A break does wonders and I return to the slope after lunch for my first run alone.
I feel nervous without Howard there to grab me if I get into a runaway slide. I also miss his help doing up my boot bindings, a complicated task when your hands are encased in the hard, orange, plastic wrist guards recommended for beginners.
I manage a few turns on my first solo run and feel quite proud. But the pommel still has me beat, sending me on to my backside yet again. I tell myself I need to get back on, remembering the old saying about falling off a horse.
The next attempt works and I have another good run. Howard's instructions about "toe edge" and "heel edge" are starting to make sense.
Another lesson in the afternoon highlights two main flaws in my technique: twisting hips that refuse to stay centred over the board and a neck that doesn't turn far enough to guide me in the right direction.
I have no excuse for the hips, but blame the neck on "journalist's shoulders", tense from hunching over a computer all day.
Howard, who has taught here and in North America for the past 12 seasons, is not having a bar of it. He orders me to stand in front of him and move my head from side to side to prove its laziness.
The lesson ends with him telling me that people generally pick snowboarding up in one to three days. "I think you're going to be a two-day person," he says.
So, not a natural, but not a complete loser either. And not one of the two poor souls carted off the mountain in a rescue helicopter that day.
The 16km drive back to Ohakune is spectacular. Mt Taranaki appears through clouds to the west and the road is empty as the car descends into eerie but beautiful forest closer to town. Like short lift queues, quiet roads are one of the treats of midweek skiing.
Back at my hotel, the Powderhorn Chateau, the receptionist recommends retiring to the hot pool. But I've forgotten my bikini, so I head to the bar to soak my aching muscles in alcohol instead.
The bar, the Powderkeg, has a warm, log-cabin feel and is busy for a Monday night. Dinner is with two strangers who are wagging work, lured to Ruapehu by the fine weather and fresh snow. One is the owner of a Wellington bar; the other a rep who sells artificial orthopaedic joints. We suggest he set up shop selling new wrists to broken snowboarders.
Sleep comes after several disturbing waking dreams that my snowboard is slipping out from under my feet.
Next morning my neck hurts when I reach up to turn on the light at 6.45am. I blame Howard. But thankfully nothing else is too sore and the day is glorious again.
The 40-minute drive to Ruapehu's other field, Whakapapa, provides spectacular views of Mt Ngauruhoe's snowy cone rising above the volcanic landscape.
I have a new instructor today: Josh, 24, born and bred on Waiheke Island. Like Howard, he generously dishes out compliments at the slightest sign of progress and pulls me up when gravity wins the battle to keep me on the ground.
Private lessons don't come cheap but it's hard not to recommend them. They are like a personal trainer versus a packed aerobics class. Less time is spent queuing for lifts than in a group lesson, especially at Whakapapa's busy Happy Valley beginners' area, and the one-on-one attention increases the likelihood of getting to intermediate terrain faster.
Sadly, all the help in the world seems unable to cure me of my difficulties with lifts. This time the chairlift replaces the pommel as the source of frustration.
Each time I get off, I face-plant into the snow or almost do the splits. The only consolation is when I ride next to a girl who is carrying her board. When I ask why, she says she fell over so many times when getting off, she gave up.
I refuse to concede defeat and eventually perseverance pays off. By the end of the day, I can glide a respectable distance from the lift before I crash.
Although I never make it out of Happy Valley, my second-to-last run feels like a success - I go faster than ever before and execute turns all the way down without falling once.
I try for one last perfect run, but it's not to be. I wipe out, whacking my tail bone, just as clouds begin to drift across the mountain for the first time during my trip. It's time to go home.
I leave Ruapehu exhilarated and inspired, vowing to make it to the big slopes next time.
And I'm not broken.
CHECKLIST
Further information: See Mt Ruapehu offers a range of learn to ski or snowboard packages.
Accommodation: Powderhorn Chateau, Ohakune, is a boutique hotel with two restaurants and a bar, offering the closest accommodation to the Turoa field. Phone: (06) 385 8888.
