Last year we visited Mt Cook in New Zealand.
It was an icy, wild, lip cracking day and after the long drive up we decided to brave a short hike out to try and snatch some views.
The clouds swirled like churned buttermilk around the mountains. The light was short gasps of angelic fire-frost.
Kelly and I were trudging amongst it all. Puffer coats zipped tight as we leaned into the scenery. Then, over the wind, she yelled at me to turn around. At that moment my gut felt the visceral bass rumble of a distant avalanche. I turned to see an up-spray of snow turned incandescent. The rock cut through it and the whole thing was then engulfed as a giant boneyard cloud rolled over.
I managed to pull out my iPhone, fumble the app and snap exactly one photo before the moment disappeared into white. It is the one at the top of this post.
You can truly never capture the embodied essence of moments like this. Be it film or art or the written word, wild experience actualised does not domesticate well. Yet there is a deep instinct in us to attempt.
If you are lucky, and dare to risk missing some of the experience in the process, you can sometimes steal a frozen instant out of it.
An instant that will at future best, point to itself now rather than to what was.
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