There is a structural truth found in the repetition of the step. Whether traversing the flatlands of the Netherlands or the high-altitude tussock of the Snow Farm, the movement serves to quiet the ‘Story’ and sharpen the ‘Lens.’ When the internal noise recedes, the world begins to author the observer. We are no longer searching for meaning; we are simply recording the Ground Truth.
These mountains have authored me deeply. I find myself back in the hangar of this blog, but this time my focus—through the camera or otherwise—has shifted from ‘Time’ to ‘Perception.’
Today I’m contrasting a Sentencing Vortex with Warbirds Over Wānaka, our biannual air show. One is grounded—and indeed demands it. The other is airborne in its appeal.
The former landed this morning during a coffee with an old friend from my DOC days. We’ve shared some hard miles, even picking up the bodies of dead climbers on Mt Aspiring years ago. His report today was the opening detail of a recent prostate cancer diagnosis—a systemic shift in his internal landscape—and the ‘where to from here’ regarding treatment. As you can imagine, he already knows how to ascend this mountain, and more importantly, how to descend to get home safely.
Yet as I write, my ears are assailed by the roar of piston-engined fighter planes putting on a free display over the lake, “amp’ing” folk up for the big day tomorrow. I reflect on the name ‘Warbirds’ and why we continue to glorify instruments of death. Many will say we do not, but my journey has taught me to be aware of the subconscious. The name is a subliminal hook, one that has drawn thousands into this small town—so much so that traffic is near gridlocked. We are staring a “Dry Pumps” possibility in the eye, tying the spectacle to the systemic failure of the town’s, and perhaps the country’s, infrastructure.
I am witnessing two different types of “Killing Machines”—one biological, one mechanical—and the hooks they use to capture our attention.
While the planes provide the crowds with artificial adrenaline, my friend is engaging in Somatic Navigation. He isn’t looking for a ‘Free Display’; he’s looking at the topo map of his own biology. Having retrieved bodies from the high glaciers of Aspiring, he knows the mountain doesn’t care about the roar of an engine—it only cares about the ‘build’ of the climber. His diagnosis isn’t a death sentence; it’s a change in the weather. He is simply recalibrating his gear for a different kind of ascent.
As the traffic stalls and the piston engines glorify a past designed for destruction, the Sovereign Lens looks elsewhere. The fuel will run thin, the planes will eventually land, and the crowd will disperse. But the ‘Wait and Watch’ protocol remains.
We choose not to be hooked by the subliminal roar, opting instead for the silence of the hangar, where the real work of ‘getting on with getting on’ is done. Right now, people are mesmerised by the mechanical power, yet remain blind to the mechanical cost.
