Sunrise epiphany

Annoyingly I woke up at 4.45am. Tried to sleep again. At 5.15am it dawned on me. I might aswell get up and see the sunrise from the mountain. I looked outside, still pitch dark. I put on a few extra layers grabbed my camera and went outside. In the time it had taken me to dress the sky had changed and grey-blue light was creeping over the horizon already. I had better get a move on. "It dawned on me..." must have different conurtations here. In the UK it means a slumbering realisation about something which is inevitable, because that is how the sun makes its appearance. Here in NZ is must mean a quick and startling epiphany. Turn-round-to-put-your-coat-on-and-it's-light kind of quick.

I jumped on the bike to race the dawn up the mountain. I only had 13kms to ride up Pembroke Rd, the tarmac road to the ski field. After 3 kms it got misty. Damn. After all the effort (of accidentally waking up early) I couldn't see more than 100metres and surely it would remain this way or worse as I got higher. I contemplated going back, but I was here now... I might see something... as I come up through the cloud, yes.... above it. Maybe. I put some more speed on, slicing through the fog, being wary of the surface condition. It didn't feel too cold but there might be ice.

Then amazingly it cleared. I could see the snow draped sides of the mountain, boom, in my face.

Its peak obscured by thick passing white cloud, coolly lit by the brighter blue-grey light behind me. Oh no, I am going to miss it. I pressed on. The mountain seemed to get no closer, the track not high enough or steep enough to warrant stopping and looking behind. In my mirror I could see more orange seeping in. Should I stop and get a picture of some kind of orange hue? Try and capture something even though I am only half way up? It might be the best I can get.

Then the road turned into a gravelly car park. I went up as far as the padlocked gate which guarded the rocky road to the ski field beyond. Orange still crowding past the cloud. I fumbled the camera out of my tankbag, my fingers working clumsily from the chill of the ride. I took some pics but the view wasn't brilliant. A thick band of cloud still obscured it, a partial sunrise. Not bad I suppose. At least I was the only one there, the exciting isolation of the mountainside and the cold wind.

Then I had a rebellious thought. I could squeeze the bike through the wooden posts at the side of the gate. The cloud started to move, brighter oranger light forced through. Amazing. I angled the bike through the gap. I felt like a naughty 10 year old sneaking his Raliegh Blazer through the turnstyle designed to stop bicycles in the local park. The handle bars are always too wide so you twist and put one through, then twist the other way for the other bar. I was through. Up, steeper on the voclanic grey gravel and rock. No one around.

A little way further up I stopped and turned to see the most stunning break of light, the dark side of the clouds moody against the bright orange as if they were frowning and grimmacing at being woken so early. Broken yolk all over the sky, deep deep orange like a free range New Zealand laid egg.

More pictures. A rush through different settings on the camera to capture the subtleties of the light. Then up again on the track to the base station: two lodges away round the mountain over a small gorge, linked to the landing area of a cable sled. Even if there was someone home, they wouldn't be down too quick to shout at me. A small glacier ran down the upper gorge, leading to it a concrete corridor built into the falling scree of the ridge to my left. I was suddenly in a war movie, the Guns of Navarone, an abandoned military installation in a rough volcanic grey-blue enclave. It was other-worldly. Triumphant, I soaked in the view. A spiritual moment.

I rode gently back down, 1st gear for control, standing on my pegs for a view that only an 8 foot person would have. That is why I bought this bike... not to become 8 foot, but to ride to locations like that. It had made my day.

During the descent I saw a dead rabbit in the road. Then, disturbed from its about-to-be breakfast, a falcon rose up out of the hedge, swooped up, flapping against the chill wind, across the remains of the sunrise. Moments later, two ducks flapped up from the roadside in exactly the same fashion as the falcon, but closer. It make me smile and chuckle with child-like appreciation.

The sunrise was definitely a highlight of the trip. I was bouyed, triumphantly ready to start the day; bright, awake, alive. It is moments like these which are the colours of the abundance of life. I was so blessed with this chance encounter with life. It's like a journey of faith. It is easy to get discouraged in the mist, when you can't see through and expect that it can't possibly improve. Even when you push on and you can look behind and see that you are missing out- it's happening and you are not there yet. Do you stop and photograph what you can get? Make do with the view through the gap in the hedge, in case it's too late and that's as good as you'll get. Push on up and you will break through the cloud, to the spectacular view. Faith is a journey and when it dawns on you it will be like the radiance and nourishing beauty of the sun on Mt Taranaki. There is so much more colour to life than often we can see- search for the colours of abundance He's given us, seek it out. Share it out. Run to it. Get out of bed. Get out of bed and turn chance encounters with life into intentional encounters which celebrate the beauty of life.

Do you know what I am trying to say? I'll stop ranting now....