Wendyl Nissen: It's woman against the wild

Camping and cyclones - hardly a match made in heaven. Photo / Thinkstock

Weather forecasts have their critics, but none more than the middle-aged woman in her caravan, on her own, staring out the window at the remnants of a cyclone which had blown in from the Pacific last week.

What this woman wanted was the following: "There is a gale warning. Steady rain and possible thunder storms. Northeasterly winds 25 knots gusting 35 knots, possibility of gusts up to 130km.

And Wendyl, I know you are sitting on a bank exposed to the northeast winds being buffeted around in your caravan and your awning is barely coping, but it will only last another 12 hours. You can sit it out, your caravan is built of sheet metal. It's like an army tank. Have a nice cup of cocoa and go to bed."

I had escaped to the caravan for a few days, seizing an opportunity to leave the city and a broody hen. I had tried shutting Matilda out of the coop but she simply made a nest outside the door.

I tried putting ice in the nest to bring her temperature down (which is why they get broody) but she sat on it until it reached boiling point. I finally filled the nest box with bricks and she sat on top of those, glared at me and continued to brood.

"I've had enough," I announced to the family. "I'm off to the caravan and if any of you would like to join me you are most welcome at the weekend, but not one day before."

"But there's a cyclone coming," said my husband, the sensible thinker.

"Nonsense, it'll blow itself out across the Tasman. You really should stop taking those weather reports seriously."

I stared at my awning stretching and moaning as the winds did their best to blow it down. I stared at the dog who had spent all afternoon whimpering, her dog receptors obviously picking up on information I couldn't. I found a recipe for lemon syrup cake at the bottom of my handbag and made it as a means of distraction. And then that 130km gust dropped by.

"That's it!" I shouted to my husband. Despite being about to lose my life I somehow found time to ring him. "Emergency stations! The awning must come down, best do it now."

On the other end of the phone in Auckland he could only imagine the sight of his wife clinging on to a flapping piece of canvas the size of a large sail and being carried off into the sky like some extreme paraglider.

"Is there anyone who can help you?" he asked, clearly scared out of his wits.

"No!" I persisted in my emergency sergeant-major voice. "No one around. No trouble though. Can do it myself! Done it before!"

And out I went into the cyclone and in 10 minutes I had it pulled down and tied up while the dog trotted backwards and forwards, labrador ears flapping in the wind, supervising in her special dog way, suddenly not afraid of anything.

And then the kind old gents arrived. As if an air raid signal - "woman alone battling elements" - had gone out across the camp they shuffled up to my caravan to help.

"It's okay, I've tied everything down, all good," I said surveying my handiwork, barefoot and dripping from head to toe.

They poked and they prodded.

"Yup, you've done a fine job there lass," one said. "You'll be safe."

"Would you like me to fix your door handle?" one offered.

It had needed fixing for a year and as much as I would have liked him to I couldn't quite justify sending a 70-year-old man out into a howling gale to fix it.

I retired to my 1968 metal caravan and got out the knitting. While the vehicle shook I knitted furiously, monitoring the radio for that special weather report which never came. The dog, meanwhile, refused to come inside, preferring to sit majestically outside braving the elements, on guard. This I saw as a good sign.

Perhaps in dog land they have weather reports which tell them when it's nearly over.

The next morning I woke to calm and sunshine and the sound of old gents outside my caravan erecting my awning for me. They worked in unison, following each other's cues. I could have kissed them, but instead I gave them some lemon syrup cake.