I REMEMBER A BUSHWALK WE TOOK ROUND THE BASE of Taranaki when I was a child, back when the maunga wasn’t yet restored to its rightful name, when it was still called Mount Egmont. We travelled to New Plymouth most school holidays, but until that wintery day we’d only seen the mountain from afar. I remember the sun glistening on the snowy peak, calling to us, our little family, the light bouncing off the fern forests and snow drifts as we drove closer and closer.
Mum and Dad, Nana, my brother and me. My baby sister still a twinkle in someone’s eye. We piled on our warm layers in the carpark, the five of us bundled up, wearing gumboots and hats, our breath frosty. My brother and I pretended to smoke Rothmans like Granny.
I remember Nana’s black leather jacket in stark contrast with her shiny red cheeks and the clean white snow.
We wound our way up the path, across the snow line, jumping over snow drifts. Eventually, the path turned to ice, our gumboots unable to handle the slippery slopes any more.
I let the grown-ups know I wanted to keep going. I stamped my feet, already so sure of myself. I told them they were giving up too easily, but I was only four. What did I know?
We turned back.
I remember five pairs of gloves rolling five perfect snowballs. I remember swallowing my fear before I threw mine at Nana.
Will she laugh or smack my bum?
You never could tell quite which way it would go after Erebus. Her happiness was a thin sheet of ice covering a deep, cold pond. Her laughter could quickly turn to anger if I got too loud or did anything ‘unladylike’. But this day was joy-filled. There was laughter and sunshine and a thermos of hot tea—and that snowball. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know if I would get away with it.
Yes!
She laughed.
With Nana, success was always sweet, the thrill of it like forbidden fruit. I relaxed, just a little.
That was the only time we ever went to the mountain as a family.
It would be many years until I would visit those slopes again. The next time, I’d go with a friend visiting from overseas. We were both 21, seeking adventure and movement, the chill of winter snow on a sunny day. The trees and ferns sheltered us from the ever-watchful Taranaki, but without the laughter and snowballs and hot tea, it just wasn’t the same.
To this day, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves takes me right back there, my breath hanging wistful in the air as our feet crunch through the forest. I am walking towards the mountain, but I never quite arrive.