Mount Cook
When it rains, it really pours.
Thunder storms usually give some warning; a premonition, before it strikes at the land. In this case, thick layers of pregnant, grey clouds had been blanketing the mountains long beforehand, clinging to them with tenacious arms and filling the air with a heavy mist. Occasional rifts in the besmirched sky released pale columns of sunlight to touch the earth, until they were truncated by the fast-shifting clouds while a ravening tempest raced from somewhere in the north, its howling not unlike that of the ululation of a pack of wolves. Then, a sheet of horizontal lightning flickered between two arciform clouds, transforming the world to pale marble for a split second before fading back into an ashen light.
As though the sky had been sliced open, the rain fell; thick and heavy, and the world became hidden behind a torrent of inexorable streamers. Thunder came, loud and with a resounding crash that echoed off the mountains. Within a matter of seconds, the entire landscape was engulfed in a raging deluge of rain water.
This is the kind of rain you prefer to scrutinise through glass, inside a heated building on a Saturday morning. With the rain scrabbling at the rooftops and prevalent thunder, this is the kind of rain that reminds you of broken dams, shower heads and Noah's ark. The kind of rain that urges you to fall back into sleep, under the sheets where there still emanates some remnants of body heat, and tells you that it is not worth waking up for this.
But what happens when you are stranded outside? You run, racing against an unseen counter, counting down to when the floodgates rupture. Desperate to find some semblance of shelter where you will be safe from the rain. Woe betide those who do not make it in time, but those who do probably do not fare much better than those who do not. It could be anywhere, under a tree, a bus stop or a gas station. For the most part, however, it does not make a difference. Gales steer water towards your face and body; clothes become soaking wet instantly. The wind combines with the raging thunder to form a discordant cacophony of bangs, howls and crashes. You curl up into the smallest ball you can make, stuff your fingers into your ears and pray that it could just end right there. But it doesn't.
.
The distance between Twizel and Mount Cook is a few dozen miles, give or take a few. The dawn sun is a glorious conflagration of orange and pink, while an unbroken plane of blue stretched overhead and slanted towards the horizon. Riding on the zephyr is a gentle scent of conifers and summer flowers. The scenery, again, does not fail to impress. On the left, ranks of snow capped mountains stand in file, laced with clouds and mist. To the right, Lake Tekapo is a light aquamarine, reflecting a pale hue in the morning sunlight that pervaded its location. The water is opaque and opalescent, flowing smoothly like a river of milk. Once again, I lust for the soft touch of the wind and wind down the window. This time, I am expecting the knife-slice of cold, blustery wind when it strikes my face.