The belly of the whale

The sky was a harbinger of rains and thunder. A single huge dark nimbus several kilometres away was lighting up every ten seconds, the classic anvil shape heavy with rain, sinking into the mountainside, slipping fast into the gullies like downward seeking smoke.

'Thats not good.' said Gen. Nobody looked at Gen, neither did anybody comment on the rhetoric. A non-sequitur; at another time there might have been some comedian to point out the uselessness of such a statement, but everyone was silent. They didn't know exactly what to do, was it dangerous or something? Harry took off his macpac and started fumbling for something. Another climber held their phone to the sky, photographing, or maybe looking for a signal, the married couple looked at each other frowning, and held hands.

It didn't matter because the cloud was moving fast and they were nearly on the top of a hard won ridge, three hours of trekking. The stunted gums had long disappeared, the subcrenulata now tiny balls of grey green thousand of metres below. Nothing but rock and pebble, and three inches of snow.

The group of twelve were reasonably fit, patrons of a new up and coming walks for seniors group, only for the over sixties, and had been promised ' excitement in a safe yet challenging environment.' Nothing felt safe about the prospect of hurriedly descending a mountainside that could soon be cloaked with invisibility and rain.

'Right,' said the leader. ' We need to shore up. Be prepared folks, we're gonna get wet.' With that, she shouldered her pack and started in a direction away from the ridge with purpose. ' This way ! Josh, get to the back. Im going to pass the rope.' Still walking, she tied a thin rope around her waist and threaded it through a carabiner, feeding the end to the next in line. ' Pass it though your waist belts and to the next person. Be sure to use the black one!' She stopped and watched impatiently as the ageing group, eyes widened, tried to find a black carabiner. 'Josh, tell me when you're secured. Lights on everybody!' Claire seemed confident, she knew this range well, and had traversed many times. The sky was darkening rapidly, and the thunder was getting louder. They listened obediently and went into action, glancing over to where they had seen the encroaching cloud.

Nobody of course had their headlamps on. Some struggled, removing their packs looking for this stretchy grey thing that could be the difference between life or, what, death? ' Tap the side,' yelled Claire, ' the light will go on.' And with that, a deafening thunder clap so loud like the earth had opened up, a neon flash of light, the ground illuminated, the little string of walkers hopelessly exposed, tiny ants on a steep slope. They marvelled at the precariousness of their situation and how far they had come. Gen saw the faces, their images playing back in her mind; Marias mascara streaming down her face, Margie's mouth agape staring intently after Claire, Melanie face down in the snow, was that blood or did she just faint? Bob's face upturned with eyes shut, John kneeling still trying to find his headlamp as the rain mercilessly poured into the opened pack, and Josh, ever the responsible one, pushing the rope through carabiners, the hapless crew looking skinnier, pale; pathetic and frightened.

On they fell and stumbled, traversing sideways across an undistinguishable slope, skidding and righting themselves, following blindly the pull on their waists of the rope unsure if they would slide and if the others could even support their fall as Claire forged ahead across the side of the mountain.

Gen was third in the line. They could be fizzled out of existence, she realised, struck by the ever increasing flashes, side by side, a trail of burned aphids on a white leaf. A lightning bolt curled into itself and then lit up an adjacent ridge, hotter than the surface of the sun, looking for somewhere to ground and release its fury. 'Keep moving!' yelled Claire. Gen saw the group was moving steadily, fear had consolidated them, adrenaline piercing through their blood, they were closer together and moving quickly. The surreal lights and images changed every ten seconds, first they were orderly, a procession of walkers, then they were hunched and kneeling on the steep slope, then clambering over an outcrop, hands and arms everywhere, pulling and shouting, faces strained, pushing down the panic that welled in all their chests.

An hour passed by but it might as well have been a minute, the intermittent light and boom now familiar, legs pressing onward, knees willed into pushing and twisting through the strain.

The thunder decreased, the space between light and sound widened, and the rain was a wall of grey, filtering through eyelids, weighting down packs, visibility zero. The sound was constant and thick, a roaring wall.

Somewhere close by, a blur of blackness loomed and Gen could hear murmuring . "Thats it, huddle up, keep your belts secured, we're not there yet.' Rest stop! Drink some water.' As ludicrous as it sounded, they all drank some water from their carry bottles and pulled their knees to their chests, breathing heavily.

Bob was smiling. He was a war vet, a peacekeeper in Iran somewhere. He did not talk about it, only in their mandatory 'let's introduce ourselves' session had Claire let slip that Bob was no stranger to adversity. Bob had not appreciated this unveiling of his past. Those that had experienced war did not talk about it, those that bragged had never been. He scowled unwelcomingly at them all, confirming his four years, stated he had left after a shrapnel wound to his right shoulder had left him incapacitated. 'Thank you for your service,' Claire had said quietly, aware now of the enormous faux pas she had committed, aware now of her youth and inexperience, ashamed that she had put a man on show, no longer proud of the catch she had made win bringing a vet into her team of walkers. All this Gen remembered, and felt badly for his obvious pain and the humiliation he must have felt for his fractured emotional state.

Gen leaned over, about to try and say something but Bob quickly turned toward her, he knew what she was thinking. ' There's no guns here.' he said, and turned his face back to the sky, now no longer smiling. His eyes were weary and a tear, it was definitely a tear, joined the torrent of rain on his worn face. His body was braced, and Gen guessed that he was being triggered, and could only imagine the horrors that his mind had transported to. She felt for his arm and rested her hand a minute, letting him know she was there, then gently squeezed it, not looking up. 'Thank you, ' he said, and patted her hand.'You can let go now.'

The rescue helicopter came several hours later when the rains abated, two of the walkers lifted out, unable to walk with twisted knees. The remaining ten given first aid and hot cocoa, a tent erected on the mountainside, paramedics checking each one, commenting on how surprised they were at their good health and resilience.

'Hello Bob,' said the pilot, a warm look on his face, of respect and fealty. Bob lifted his face and smiled. They walked away a few feet with a lantern, talking in short sentences, looking into each others faces, until Bob placed his hand on the pilots shoulder and nodded knowingly.

They had been lucky, the storm was a supercell generated from the antarctic and most of Hobart was in darkness. The helicopter engine power increased, the scream of the vortex, a few more minutes of checks and calls and the belly of the copter lifted up like a breaching whale slowly into the night sky.