Downhill skiers are shuffling slowly along like cattle in a processing yard, waiting more than 20 minutes to be lifted up for the 10 minutes of downhill glory.

I Tweet out the scene. Responses suggest it's akin to that famous 1898 image of a long line of gold seekers stretching over the Chilcoot Pass in Alaska en-route to the gold rush in Canada's Yukon Territory. The likeness is uncanny; only for these skiers there's no chance of finding any treasure, just a short adrenalin rush and the prospect of broken bones.

As you may have gathered, I'm not a fan of downhill skiing, partially because of the exorbitant cost but more so because of my poor sense of balance. Despite these shortcomings, I'm just as enamoured by our high country, resplendent in its winter cloak as most. I just like to explore and savour it at a slower pace than skiers. Today, I'm embarking on a solo hike to Porcupine Rocks via the Wheatley Link Track, south-east of Perisher.

Previously I've never had enough courage (or foolishness) to venture into the great white wilderness by myself - it goes against most of the advice you hear (and give). But I've triple-checked the weather forecast, it's as good a day as you'll get in these lofty parts in winter. I'm also carrying maps, a compass, a fully charged mobile phone, a personal safety beacon and have let others know my intended route. What's more, it's a marked track and only 8km. So I'll be fine, won't I?

With one final scan of the sky above the peaks holding up the western horizon for any sign of threatening clouds, I tighten the latches on my snowshoes and crunch through the fresh snow past the locked gates on Kosciuszko Road that prevent motorised vehicles driving beyond Perisher Resort.

The first part of the hike along the snow-covered road is hardly backcountry, but it helps build up a rhythm in my gait - it takes a while to get used to walking with tennis racquet sized contraptions on your feet, even if they are made out of carbon fibre.

Soon the blaring rock music being pumped out of speakers at the resort fades away and before long the skiers flying down the slopes like out-of-control puppets are mere pinpricks in the valley over my right shoulder.

Just past Perisher Gap the track head looms, along with a map on a sign that, due to a faded legend, is somewhat confusing to read, but I know where I'm going, don't I?

Leaving the safety of the road behind, in calm conditions, I clamber up into a hillside of snow gums poking their twisted limbs out of last night's welcome snow fall. Early morning dew accentuates their already nature-defying colours.

It's normally easy to follow snow shoe tracks, especially in 20cm of fresh powder, but with no one else within cooee, I'm making first tracks. But what if something goes wrong?

Everything feels and looks so new and fresh. Each snowflake on the ground and clinging to the branches, glistens in the morning sun. Divine.

In contrast, I can't bare to look back, my footprints leave fractured chasms in the otherwise perfectly smooth cover of white. My cumbersome tracks look as if a kid has scrawled all over a Monet masterpiece.

The first hour is a bit of a slog uphill, and when I stop to catch my breath, the silence is so loud it almost hurts. How can the bush be so quiet?

Eventually the serenity is broken by a Little Raven, not by its trademark call, so redolent of the high country, rather its wings gently flapping in the still, frigid air. It flies just ahead of me towards the south, as if enticing me to head in the wrong direction.

Apart from the lone raven, the only other sign of animals are tiny footprints criss-crossing the track ahead.

There are wild dog and smaller ones I can't decipher but am hoping they aren't rabbits or other ferals, rather a native marsupial, or even lyrebird known to inhabit these areas. One can only hope.

Emerging from the leeward side of the ridge I step out onto the plateau. Whoa! It's like stepping into the path of a freight train, a gusty southerly whipping across the roof of Australia.

Pulling my beanie further down over my ears, it's a mad dash across to Porcupine Rocks, a rocky outbreak sticking out of the eastern side of the plateau like, you guessed it, a giant porcupine. Although, I'd rather it was called Echidna Rocks.

Reaching the rocks is somewhat anticlimactic. Sure, the view to the north-east is expansive, but rather than looking over the great white wilderness, the vista instead features the man-made lake and spread of chalets at Lake Crackenback Resort, and beyond to the dry plains of the Monaro.

The 3km descent to Perisher traverses some dramatic rock strewn slopes but I feel a little flat the whole way, knowing that with each step I'm closer to returning to the loud and showy slopes of the resort.

Back at the lodge, while de-icing my shoes, I wonder why I waited this long to explore, albeit a tiny fraction of, this high country solo?

Of course, you can never take the snowies for granted and before I set out into more remote backcountry I'll be honing my navigation and snow survival skills.

I might also try and convince some of my downhill mates to come with me, but somehow I just don't think they'd get it.

My route: This snowshoe trek follows a winter-only route. From Perisher Resort, follow the Kosciuszko Road to a gap, just past the last ski lift. Here follow the snow pole line up along the Wheatley Link Track among the snow gums and across some exposed plains. This link leads up to a valley below Porcupine Rocks, where you follow the snow poles and valley back down towards Perisher. Wildwalks.com.au outlines this circuit in more detail. Allow at least three hours.

Warning: This walk follows an over-snow-only route. During the warmer months, this walk crosses sensitive bogs that can be significantly damaged, even by light footed walkers. Rangers advise to only walk this track when it is well covered with snow.

Snowshoeing tracks: There are several dedicated snowshoe tracks near Perisher. Closer to home, the Mt Franklin Road in the Brindabellas is ideal for snowshoeing when closed to vehicles after a big snow fall like we experienced last weekend.

Guided tours: Several operators offer snowshoeing expeditions in the NSW snowies, from half-day picnics to overnight snow camps. For more, check-out K7 Adventures.

Last week's feature on Canberra buildings supposedly built back-to-front prompted a bulging mailbag.

While many readers are aware of the long-told rumours of the Brassey Hotel in Barton being mistakenly built back-to-front, there appears to be a dearth of historical documentation to support this legend.

One well-read local who has previously delved into this architectural whodunnit is Nick Swain, president of the Canberra & District Historical Society. Swain even published an article on the urban legend in Canberra History News (August/September 2008. No 418).

"This story is interesting because the grand colonnaded east side of Brassey House looks out to Belmore Gardens while the less ornate west entrance, which is the main point of arrival, faces the busier Macquarie Street," Swain says.

According to Swain, the plans for the Brassey "are held in the Tutty Collection at the National Trust of Australia (ACT) and show the building in its present orientation with the wings splayed out around the top of Belmore Gardens".

"This orientation is confirmed by other drawings which show the east and west elevations facing Belmore Gardens and Macquarie Street respectively," Swain says.

He suspects one possible basis for the legend it was built the wrong way could be that "the local builders found the design rather unusual and did not appreciate the way it flanked Belmore Gardens".

The mystery continues.

Meanwhile, Maarama Kamira reports she was married at Sydney's Mortuary Station, which bookended the Rookwood Cemetery Terminus, and which in the 1950s was dismantled and transported to Canberra and reassembled as the All Saints Anglican Church in Ainslie.

"It was 1993 and it was Heritage Week so we had the governor-general's carriage at the platform," Kamira says. "As a result the photos were amazing".

I bet they were.

Further afield, Malcolm, of Gungahlin says "apparently when they laid out Kununurra in Western Australia they inadvertently used a mirror image of the original plan". This meant "the power plant ended up near the highway instead of behind a hill; noisy, very." Can anyone confirm this?

CONTACT TIM: Email: timtheyowieman@bigpond.com or Twitter: @TimYowie or write c/- The Canberra Times, 9 Pirie St, Fyshwick.

Cryptic clue: How much attention were you paying while reading last week's column?

Degree of difficulty: Medium

Last week: Congratulations to Lexa Hains, of Ainslie, who was the first reader to correctly identify last week's photo (inset) as the old Weights and Measures Building, officially called Newcastle House, located at the eastern end of Eyre Street in Kingston (the Causeway) near the entrance to the Jerrabomberra Wetlands. Hains says "the building used to be the office and inspection facility for the Department of Fair Trade Measurements Office and because of its abandoned state is now favourite location for many nocturnal activities". Oh, the mind boggles.

Hains just beat Erich Janssen, of Barton, and John Hanrahan, of Kaleen, to the prize. Hanrahan confesses he had "inside knowledge". "I was the very young design architect for this National Capital Development Commission (NCDC) project," Hanrahan says.

How to enter: Email your guess along with your name and address to timtheyowieman@bigpond.com. The first email sent after 10am, Saturday, August 17, 2019 will win a double pass to Dendy - The Home of Quality Cinema.

Over a year since this column first featured an exposé on stairs that lead nowhere, photos of dead-end destinations continue to land in my inbox.

"Sadly, this is all that's left of what used to be the extravagant home of a somewhat eccentric American costume designer named Madame Sherri," writes Tim Grainger of Holder, who spotted this abruptly ending staircase on a recent trip the US.

"She built the house - often referred to as a castle - in the middle of a forest located near Chesterfield, a small town in the south-west corner of New Hampshire, and was known for her huge, indulgent parties," he says.

"After Madame Sherri went broke, the house fell into disrepair before a fire in 1962 finished off what hadn't been looted or vandalised - with the staircase all that remains."

"Is it just me, or does this rock formation at Yarrangobilly Caves remind other readers of Edvard Munch's The Scream?" asks Gordon Fyfe, of Kambah. Well, I'm convinced, are you?