The Story Behind The Windstorm

Windstorm, Diptych, Oil. on canvas

The Trees keep me safe as I tramp lonely trails on a blustery day. The higher I climb the more snatches of stormy gusts sneak through.  Boughs sway and the cracking of typically still trunks echo through my bones. I’ll keep going until I cannot go anymore. Surely I can make through the bush to the staircase 

At the stairs, the penultimate climb to the hut, a group of men in their thirties stumble down in great force/energy clamor - shaking their heads, - calling off their day. And to me: No-no - Don't go any further - it’s a dangerous day- the wind - the Wind.. 

As the stairs clear of their raucous disappointment and relinquished plans, I think, surely I can climb these stairs to the hut. I’ll just go until I can't go any further…

The stairs lead out of the forest's wind-block embrace. The shrubs and grass hug the earth tightly, made for days like these. The grasses look like ocean waves in the torrent of winds. There are higher heights in that mountain range that held back some of the wind.

Surely I can make it to the hut for a sit and a nibble.  

At the hut, a snack, a thought- I’ll go to the top of the hill and see how the connecting pass to the top looks. I’ll just see…

I walk the steeper of two trails through grasses to my thigh to have a little protection.  I pause and survey the connector trail.It leads to the top of Mt. Holdsworth and continues on through the range.

My business is not with the journey of the Tararua Range, but with this mountain, Holdsworth, itself. This is the mountain I need to speak to, to prove myself to. This is the mountain to whom I request permission to stay here in this land. I am far from home and things are beyond anyone’s control right now. I would like to stay here longer. It is safe here. I don’t know why but I know deeply that this is the mountain I must speak with.

This narrow path has a name for fierce winds that blow people right off the mountain. Can I go any further? I listen. I scan the grass and shrubs being swept into great waves of motion. I am at the height of clouds and they mask all sense of depth and direction. Through it all, I see a small pink figure that seems to float in the clouds’ mist. I move slowly, but mostly I wait. The figure comes nearer - details emerge, a petite woman in her 50s, flash pink tramping gear..  Her rhythmic movements are punctuated w/walking poles. She gets within shouting distance.

How is it out there? 

She comes closer. Oh fine!...a bit windy.

Will I be okay? 

Oh sure! Pay attention to the trail. If the wind comes up on you, you may have to get close to the ground. It’s doable. 

Just keep going until you can’t 

Short on both rhythm and style, I stumble onto the trail in my hodgepodge gear. This mountain angel ignites me with her grace to reach the top. 

The wind tests me, attempts to take my feet out from under me more than once. I hug the ground. I army crawl through the worst of it. I wonder if it's the walking poles that made the woman so infallible or if she and the mountain-winds just know each other. 

I make it to the marked peak, “the top”. I hold a humble conference at the peak. I make my request and lay my gift in a clump of grass a safe bit off the trail so as to not be stepped on. I sit at the marker and survey the area.  I can't see a darn thing. The fog is thick. I’m lucky to see two or three meters out. Enveloped in the swirling  clouds and fog, I am happy with my success.  

Happy to keep going.