A true story based upon a foolhardy attempt to climb Mount Rolleston, one of New Zealand's most treacherous mountains.

The mighty craggy mountain,
Hidden by grey misty gloom,
Has such cruel and steep ramparts
Where many have met their doom.
Battlements of crumbling rock,
And huge bluffs bring trembling fear.
His pockmarked face is awash,
With rain's soft and cleansing tear.

This morning we assail him,
To climb his great daunting walls,
That mockingly confront us,
As the soaking rain still falls.
With valiant efforts puny
Against such awesome power.
Up through the eerie silence,
We'll scale his soaring tower!

Fingers grab at weathered stone,
On faint trails of climbers old.
The few that tried and failed,
Are white bones now still and cold.
Sharp crampons stabbing footholds,
On Rolleston's frozen face,
It's onward to the summit
At a crawling snail's pace.

Gasping breath and straining thighs,
And grim determination.
The sleeping giant's aroused,
By our lofty aspiration.
Tiny ants on upward climb,
Annoy his ancient skin,
He responds with rumbling growl,
Through the air so cold and thin.

Unseen hands in anger throw,
A wrathful tide of rocks and muck.
We've mortal fear and no recourse,
To run, weave, dive or duck.
We stare into our Maker's face,
With poor hearts now pounding loud,
Will death be our certain fate,
Upon this mountain proud?

To one side in a deep ravine,
Roars the avalanche of might.
With a prayer we watch it pass,
A timely warning of our plight.
So turning now, we retrace our steps,
And heed the Giant's call.
He's won again, but we're saved
From grim death beneath a rocky pall.