Queenstown Times reporter Joe Dodgshun is one of thousands of residents and visitors whose travel plans scattered to the four winds due to the severe winter weather. He shares his experience of simply trying to get back to Queenstown.
Having left Queenstown last week on a beautiful Friday afternoon, I had expectations of a brilliant weekend catching up with departing friends in Christchurch, followed by a swift return in time for work on Monday.
Nature, however, had other ideas.
Cockily arriving at the airport on Sunday afternoon having experienced only a brief hail shower, I was not too fazed when the flight was delayed then diverted to Invercargill - there are worse places to end up, right?
After a smooth flight nose-first into the Antarctic southerly, within cooee of Invercargill, the clouds suddenly split to reveal a snow-bleached patchwork of fields and hills below.
At this, the aircraft slowly starts banking and, to a collective groan from passengers, the pilot informs us we are returning to Christchurch.
The flight attendants look as frustrated as the passengers, and while passing out fudge "to help sweeten you all up", one of the helpful ladies smiles and pours a pile of the treats on the empty seat next to me.
It is not until we reach Christchurch Airport that I realise how fortunate I am.
Accommodation is full to capacity already and with only carry-on luggage I pass by the circus that is the baggage carousel and join the queue to rebook.
While waiting, I meet an overseas couple tossing up whether to sacrifice their Queenstown holiday to make their Thursday international flight and hear two teachers ahead who are trying to organise not just themselves, but 20-odd pupils.
Struggling with the seemingly straightforward task of returning just myself to Queenstown, I thank my lucky stars and after at least an hour in the queue, I am rebooked for a flight the next day.
Typical of Christchurch, who gives me a ride from the airport but Student Army leader and university friend Sam Johnson.
There really is something about this guy and helping out during extreme natural events.
Sure enough, as he drops me off at my destination in town, the snow is falling in fat flakes, swirling in what my hosts Nicole and Chris likened to clouds of small feathers sailing through the empty streets.
On Monday morning, I wake to the sight of the Arts Centre given a fresh coating of powder, learn the value of plastic bags inside decidedly un-waterproof sneakers and again have my flight transferred to the next day.
If central Christchurch seems spookily deserted now at the best of times, walks around town heighten the surreal feeling. Toppled roofs and spilled masonry lie like frosted gravestones.
At night, standing in a down-town intersection - once a rather suicidal prospect - the only sounds are the buzzing of powerlines and the patter of snow on my jacket hood.
After a chilly night in, the snow yesterday returned with a vengeance and, unsurprisingly, the flight, along with many others, was cancelled.
