Blue Cow was the quiet one at the table. Then it stood up.

You leave Perisher on the Skitube, rattling through black rock under the Snowy Mountains, and then you burst into glare. No soft edges. Just wind and sky and that high country exposure that reveals what you're made of.

I am, by habit and mild snobbery, a Thredbo girl. I like my runs long, my village vertical, my coffee within stumbling distance. But one season, my sister, diplomatic as ever, hauled me across to Perisher Ski Resort.

“Trust me,” she said.

Which is what sisters say before something gives.

Perisher was four ski fields once upon a time. Blue Cow. Smiggin Holes. Guthega. Perisher Valley. Stitched together like a grazier's jumper. Lift by lift. Decade by decade. Vision, investment and great seasonal snow did the rest.

We laughed most of the day. I stacked it once and hit hard. Snow up my jacket. Pride somewhere down the slope. I blamed the skis. She said I was getting long in the tooth. I told her snowboarders do not get voting rights. She beat me to the bottom.

By late afternoon the mountain burned gold. Tangerine shadows pooled in the gullies. The air went thin and crisp. A hard day paid back in light. We chinked our schnapps and called it a day.

I went home still loyal to Thredbo. Allegiance is a stubborn thing. But I stopped calling Perisher the soft option.

You can love one mountain.

Another can still undo you.

Check out the close-up!