My friends and I went on a road trip a few years back in a campervan. It was the height of Summer. There were four of us. We drove around the lake on our way to Mt Ruapehu.
My friend Boomin from Sri-Lanka had never seen the snow before, so we decided to make one of his dreams come true. We travelled a great stretch, to do so. I think we were in Rotorua, or parked up in some far-flung area of North Island, before setting out. After hours slowly crawling past, we reached our destination — there was almost no snow.
Undeterred, we lugged our weary bodies up the mountain in the baking sun. I wore a funny-looking cowboy hat.
Finally, we fell across a small patch of half-melted brown snow — acting like children with a wild sense of abandon — we chucked it at each other, laughing, and cackling with joy; our laughter might've caused an avalanche in Winter.
We decided right then and there the expedition was a raging success. To celebrate, we ended up BBQing in the Ruapehu car park; miles above sea-level.
We ate sausages and noodles to satiate our hunger. Drank ice-cool drinks to ease our thirst.
All while being seated precariously on foldable beach chairs. The chairs must've been dazed by their surroundings — if not for their lack of consciousness.
The mountains loomed large, dwarfing us like insects.
Our road trip became a humble and happy memory.
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