In the serene backcountry of Ngarigo country, where weaving waves of red gums met the white horizon, three adventurous girls embarked on a quest up Mt Rams head. The day was a painter’s dream; skies a tranquil blue, no breath of wind to ruffle the landscape. With skins beneath their skis, the trio plodded onwards towards the snowy summit, with spirits as high as the peak they sought.
From the top, the view was a sweeping tapestry of mist and tranquility. Eager to savour the night’s stillness, they pitched their tents with the precision of a well-rehearsed ballet. The sun dipped low, casting a frosty, purple glow over their little haven.
Hot chocolate and wafters to see the darkness in, they sat squished in a Tardis of sleeping bags and played UNO until tiredness emerged.
Yet, as night deepened and the stars twinkled like scattered gems, the stillness was rudely interrupted. A tempest, as if summoned by the mischievous gods of weather, descended upon the peak. Winds roared with a fury, gusts reaching 60kmph, as though the mountain had been awakened with rage.
Ivy woke up to the sound of the tent battling the elements, flapping, shaking, screaming. And in the mist of audio chaos, the squeak of their tent zipper opened, revealing Emmas terrified, frozen, face. ‘I need help’ she alarmed.
They clamber outside to assess the situation, her tent poles had snapped like bones. It was in this moment they realised that camping on an exposed summit, close to the edge of a sheer cliff drop, was not the smartest idea they had had.
And then, as if the god of wind agreed with their mediocracy, it took one more mighty breath, and Emmas tent, unmoored by the invisible forces, transformed into a haphazard sail. It took flight, a colourful speck against the night sky, trailing a ribbon of chaos. Laura and Ivy, clutching their remaining tent as if they were sacred relics, watched in disbelief.
“Holy shit, your tent’s a dragon!” Ivy shouted through the cacophony, her voice struggling to compete with the gale. Emma, now watching her tent riffle down the mountain, could only laugh as her shelter waltzed away into the darkness.
The last surviving tent was in a dangerous position, seemingly edging closer to the cliff edge with every gust. But the practise of moving the tent in this weather was just a recipe for another ‘house in the sky.’ So they stayed put, hoping the weight of three terrified woman would be enough to take on the wind.
Huddled together like ‘not so emperor’ penguins, the night was sleepless and tense. Only one sentence was spoken ‘Did you not check the wind forecast?’
By morning, the tempest had surrendered, and the summit lay tranquil once more. With laughter echoing in their wake, the trio packed up, their memories marked by a night of chaos. Emma’s tent eventually returned, caught in the arms of a gumtree, and the girls descended on skis, their spirits unbowed and their stories richer for the adventure.
And they take with them a life long lesson: Never underestimate the power of the mountains.
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