It seldom snowed they said,
perhaps theyre right
although seldom was never
in that endless summer
which tightened a fiery grip by day,
baking the plateau,
relentlessly melting its snow.
It began as a cliché
on a slow day
in a new January
of stupid heat
that penetrated the heart,
enslaving energies replete
with blinding lassitude,
defeating even the more able.
Over a beer shared in the Mess
we agreed to climb Mount Ruapehu.
The snowline had retreated enough
for a leisurely stroll
from the skiers upper car park
to Crater Lake,
wed take a picnic lunch,
snap some great pictures,
be home for tea.
I had never climbed the volcano before
but it sounded okay to me,
representing no more
than a brisk mornings walk.
I had heard the talk
of its moods,
how out of the placid blue
a shift in weather
could strand climbers,
I had seen the same phenomenon
from a safe distance
and I believed it true
but things had been stable for weeks.
When I reached the peak
clad only in running shorts,
a T shirt and combat boots
I was in awe of the view,
it was worth every risk
not that there were any,
and to stand in brisk air
on top of this part of New Zealand,
on the pinnacle,
with two properly dressed
climbers roped together,
ice-axed and slack-jawed
gazing at me bewildered,
was an inspiration.
We exchanged greetings
and I left on my bum,
there was no other way down.
When my friends joined me
at the rim of Crater Lake
and we had shared
snow-chilled Liebfraumilch,
chicken and fresh, crusty rolls,
they asked if
my skinned buttocks hurt.
Not when sitting in snow
on top of Ruapehu
with my friends
I said, but tonight,
it might be a different matter.
© I.D. Carswell
It seldom snowed Part IV
written byIvan Donn Carswell
© Ivan Donn Carswell