ECHO THROUGH TIME

From 12,000 miles away the story swept through the media. Within twenty-four hours the news had faded, but not before providing me with the disturbing explanation of an echo that had spiralled through time, from a mountaintop twelve years previously.

Mount Ruapehu is a dormant volcano with a lake filled crater at its summit. It lies just south of Lake Taupo on the North Island of New Zealand. Its nearest neighbour is Ngorongoro, an active partner in the same range. Even though the whole area is an unstable rift in the earth's crust, it is a popular ski resort in wintertime. In February 1985 I was in New Zealand. I’d hitched a ride in the rain to Ruapehu. If the weather cleared, I had hopes of climbing it. Although eleven thousand feet high it was supposed to be an easy climb, made easier by a paved road that snakes up from a campground to the chalet.

I spent a cool night camped out but rose to the sun. I ate quickly and by seven started on the three-mile walk to where the real climb begins. I'd barely set out when a car stopped. The driver was on his way up to do repair work at the chalet and offered me a ride. As the car crawled slowly up the steepening grade, I gazed out at the scenery; a volcanic arena, peaks benignly coated with snow, thinly disguising formidable power.

The lower slopes of the mountain are violently barren. Charred and stunted pines are all that's left of the old tree line, crippled shadows against the massive cone of Ngorongoro. Less dormant than Ruapehu, innocent wisps of smoke betray it, like someone caught smoking, lungs full to bursting.

From the chalet my route lay up the ski field, a naked scratch on the side of the mountain, I tried to imagine it in winter, swarming with people, but exposed by the summer sun it was just rubble strewn desolation.

I began to climb, picking my way over rocks, stumbling upwards. I'd thought I was in shape but as I climbed higher, I could feel my body aging with the effects of altitude. It was cold and I was tiring quickly. Each ridge conquered only revealed another, blocking sight of the summit. Underfoot the ground was unstable, loose, and crumbly, blackened wet cinders of lava smearing the old snow. My legs were heavy; my fingers sore from scrambling up the almost sheer slope. As I dragged myself onto the crest I was gasping for air. From there I lurched along a narrow spine of bare rock which ended abruptly at the highest point, right on the edge of the crater. The blue sky should have been reflected in the water below, but it wasn't. Shielded from wind, it was grey and lifeless. Any other body of water would invite a stone to be tossed in. Not this one. It threatened retaliation.

I sat and rested as my breathing returned to normal. The pounding in my ears eased, replaced by an empty silence. I'd never been this high before, in a place so different, so far from people. Yet I was disappointed. I'd expected something more, enlightenment, wonder, or some emotion other than the pride that I'd made it. I wanted to be overwhelmed by the grandeur, to be amazed by the scenery, but the valley in the distance was hazy, without detail. Surrounding peaks blurred with the sky. I felt myself shrinking into insignificance against time and space. I was alone, the last person on earth, insecure, vulnerable. I wanted back, to be among people, to feel alive.

Boom! The sound rocked me, then again, and again. Six times I winced before silence returned. Nothing had changed. The lake was still featureless. The smoke from Ngorongoro still whispered from its peak. The tranquility was ominous. Anxiety tugged at my sleeve. Panicking, I scurried along the ridge, retracing my steps to begin the descent, slipping, falling, tobogganing down the slurry, obsidian rocks piercing the snow like rotten teeth, snapping at me as I slid by. Down, down, down. I eventually stumbled into the chalet, grazed, and bruised, remembering little of my flight, as though I'd fallen through time.

I was able to get a ride down to the campground with someone from the chalet. I asked about the sounds I'd heard on the summit, expecting to hear a simple explanation, but they'd heard nothing. No one had. It was a mystery, and remained so until just this month, when, from 12,000 miles away the story echoed through the media. On the 4th of February at Echo Lodge, a remote village on the slopes of Mount Ruahpehu, a popular ski resort in New Zealand, a deranged man has slaughtered six people with a shotgun.