HALF-WAY UP the mountain, my lips begin to turn blue. Small gulps of Siberian air numb my mouth and every breath is exhaled as a violent torrent of vapour. As my creaking carriage inches skyward, my body begins to go into deep freeze.
It seems an unfortunate coincidence that one of the world's slowest chairlifts should find a home in one of the world's coldest ski resorts. Back in Harbin, Heilongjiang province's capital, the December weather had a certain novelty value. Out here on the exposed slopes of Yabuli, 200km away, the temperature is minus 25 degrees Celsius, and 20 minutes feels like a long time to be hanging in mid-air.
A few shimmies at the 1,374m summit and life is partially restored to my limbs. The stunning views across the rippled, snow-drenched plains of Heilongjiang are almost as breathtaking as the icy air, and soon I'm hurtling along an empty slope, feeling thoroughly glad I braved the Manchurian chill. Skiing is apparently increasingly popular in China, with about one million newcomers said to be taking to the slopes annually.
The small town of Yabuli, with 21 years' experience behind it, is something of a godfather to the sport in China. It hosted the Third Asian Games in 1996 and, despite a raft of newly developed ski areas across the country, safely maintains its reputation as the biggest and best resort this side of Mongolia.
It isn't only the astonishing cold that gives Yabuli an edge on its competitors. It may not be as sophisticated as its newer, modern rivals in the Beijing locale and it may not be as thrilling as some of the ski fields of Japan, Europe or America, but Yabuli has its own rural Chinese charm. In few ski resorts will you find scores of hanging red lanterns lining the alpine trails or encounter entire battalions of chain-smoking workers apparently piste-grooming with spades. Both provide a novel distraction as I breeze along one of the many runs that have been carved from the mountain forest.
At the end of my first day, my guesthouse landlady-cum-chauffeur collects me from base camp in a battered police van - another reminder, perhaps, of just how far I am from urban authority. The van looks as if it's been rolled down more mountains than it has driven up, but the siren works. We race back to the guest house with blue lights flashing.