Little Auks

After what seems like an eternity, I’ve managed to reach the colony of little auks. More than once, my feet had slipped on the treacherous terrain of broken boulders that lead up the steep slope. But at last, I’m here.

They are nervous birds and scare easily. I have to swap to my long lens because I cannot get near enough. It doesn’t take long for me to get frustrated with the speed and agility of these tiny birds against the cumbersome weight of my big telephoto. I swap back to a shorter lens, resigning myself to the fact that I won’t get the close-up I seek.

But my luck changes.

An arctic fox is picking their way through the rubble along the slope. In a flurry of activity, a section of the colony leap into the sky and race down the hill, veering sharply as they reach the water and then back up. Once, twice and then a third circuit before they resettle in their rookery.

It is enough to dissuade the fox here and as it moves to another part of the colony, the same occurs with another group of dovekies. I quietly sit, watching how narrowly they skim the broken surface of the jagged outcrops, wondering if they’ll strike them if they’re careless. Their nimble forms negotiate the obstacles with consummate ease. I feel very fortunate to witness their everyday.

Mt Ngauruhoe

In the early evening light at the base of Mt Ruapehu, it looks far more sinister than I was expecting. Tendrils of cloud cling desperately to its surface, giving the impression that the mountain is ready to speak. Despite its dormancy, Ngauruhoe inspires trepidation.

As part of a large expanse of volcanic terrain, it is unusual for the symmetry of its cone. The surrounding mountains have been torn asunder by the ferocity of blasts in histories past. However, for this infant structure, its time to tyrannically dominate the landscape is yet to come. While it waits, it is content to silently hide in the pink hues that dusk paints across its ashen peak.

 In this still and gorgeous light, its hostile charisma is unnerving. I am hypnotised and not surprised that it was used to portray the much-feared Mount Doom in The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Perhaps, even now, it is watching me.

At the Gem Festival

“C’mon,” he beckons. She shrugs and hides sheepishly behind the felt brim of her new hat. “I’m sure you’ve had tougher rides,” he teases. She giggles at the innuendo and her friends begin to cajole.
“What’s the go?” She takes half a step forward. He holds out his hand and calls her over with a nod.
“Climb up, and hang on. Nothing to it.”
“Are you sure I’m not going to come a cropper?” By now, she has covered the distance between them. Skilfully, he helps her up in a single motion as he answers.
“Just fall toward the mattresses, and not the street,” he smiles. “Besides, you’re in Quilpie, what could go wrong?”

Friends hoot as the mechanical bull starts to gently roll. Awkwardly at first, she quickly finds her centre and counteracts its motion. “That’s the way, Love. Now let’s see how you go.” Almost as soon as he finishes the sentence, the beast bucks her high. Her expression reflects the surprise, but the hollering of her friends quickly returns the smile to her face.

It gets faster, and more unpredictable. She squeezes her legs hard against the leather of the saddle and conquers its rhythm. Her smile continues to broaden.

There is much applause as she dismounts and staggers back over to her friends, her balance thrown by the ride. He turns to the group, and while adjusting one of the mattresses with a kick, challenges them to beat her. There are no takers, and they wander off in a cacophony of amused chatter.

The showman laughs after them, content in the knowledge they have enjoyed the spectacle. With a practiced eye, he begins to search for another group he can engage.

Welcome to the Arctic

Welcome to the Arctic. There are no hills here and no glaciers to pour down frozen mountains. There are only flat plains of broken ice.

Mounds of snow, blown by the wind, thaw and freeze into solid blocks. They stand as sentinels, guarding the polar terrain from inquisition.

The occasional cigar-shaped blob catches my eye on these sheets of ice. Seals, rich with blubber, snooze in the daylight. They are wary, however. Despite the bland surrounds, they keep ears alert for the sound of an approaching nanook. But for now, it is silent.

I feel strange here: lost and waiting for something to happen, even if I’m not sure what. I am hypnotised by it all, and challenged by its stark honesty. This is not a welcoming place.

Under the warmth of the midnight sun, I stare from the bow of the ship and marvel at the surreal majesty of my hostile surrounds. I count myself lucky to have seen what so few will.

The Ekka

The August breeze is cold as they queue for the ferris wheel. She draws her coat a little tighter and nervously reaches for the hand of her date. She has been on this ride many times before, but never with a boy. He pays and she sheepishly smiles as the carriage shifts with their weight.

It circles once, and then again. She peers out over the grounds, above the noise and lights of other rides, and beyond the smells of cattle, horse, and deep-fried, winter fare. It is sanctuary amid the tumult of the Ekka.

The wind picks up and their seat begins to sway. Their ride stops with them at the top. She is unsettled and can feel it creep into the creases around her eyes.

Feeling him move, she turns her head to see if he is equally uncomfortable. He is not and presses forward to bite gently at her bottom lip. She feels her tension dissolve with the soft pressure he applies, and melts. Comfort turns to lust and she hungrily tastes his breath. Their view is forgotten in desire.

A jolt as the wheel begins to move, breaking their kiss. She giggles as her senses return. He sits back with a laconic grin and she snuggles into his shoulder as the wheel continues to turn.

Ngawi Staircase

Step step step. You’ve got to be kidding me, right? All the way to the top? What’s up there? What do you mean you’re not going to tell me? Don’t tell me to shut up. Alright, alright. Step step step.

This can’t be worth it. I’m going to have a heart attack. What? Only half way! Someone is going to pay. Step step step. Are we there yet? Geez, I shouldn’t have looked up.

Step step step. Is it going to be this blowy at the top? I’m going to freeze when I stop. Stop pushing me in the back. Okay, okay. I’m moving, I’m moving. They need an elevator. Are you sure this is really necessary?

I’ve lost count. How many steps do you think there is? What do you mean, “you don’t care”? Yeah, yeah - you and what army? Giggle. Cough. Pant. Ugh. Step step step.

Only ten stairs left. Pant. Wheeze. Nearly there. I can see the lighthouse. It looked far more impressive from the bottom. Step step step.

Yay! Made it. Wow! Pounamu green grasses stretch east to west, as far as my eyes can see. Grey-blue waters boil white breakers against the shore to the south. And the sky is the most perfect azure. I’ve never seen so much colour before. If I wasn’t so puffed, it’d be breath-taking.

Bloody hell! Those stairs look even worse from the top looking down. Maybe I should be quiet before someone thumps me.

Snow Leopard

She is beautiful and not the slightest bit interested in me.  From her vantage point atop a boulder, she surveys the paths that lead to her enclosure.  As self-absorbed children noisily pass, her lingering gaze betrays her intent.  It may not be hunger that drives her, but it is in her nature.

Calmly, she sits and watches the world move around her.  And then something catches her eye.  I don't know whether it is the platinum blonde of her hair, but the arrival of a young woman has captured her attention  She is off.

With her body low, she slinks across the waterfall into the cover of a couple of sparse trees.  Even beneath her thick coat of mottled white, I can see her muscles are taut.  She is hunting.

There is no time to change lenses and I watch as she comes down the embankment toward the perimeter of her cage.  She crouches further as she reaches the electric wire that warns her that this is as far she is allowed.  The moat does not look wide enough to prevent her crossing.  The metal grid of the cage does not look tall enough to prevent her coming over the top.

Coiled to strike, the object of her focus remains oblivious as she rummages through a handbag.  And then she changes her mind.  It's as if memory has overhwelmed her instinct and she retreats the way she came.  I am sure it is disgust that I can read in her expression as she returns to her perch.

Snow leopards are now my favourite of the big cats.