Peak into life at top of Te Mata

I love cop stakeout scenes. Endless greasy burgers, doughnuts and bottomless cups of coffee complement any workstation I say.
So when I'm asked to spend two hours in an observational role atop Te Mata Peak - with a view to penning all that ensues - I load the passenger seat with savouries.
Ten minutes later, about 10.45am, the hot pastries fog up the car's interior, and I almost collect a pedestrian walking on the roadside. I figure he's partly to blame, given he's on the wrong side of the road and has his MP3 player up too loud to hear approaching vehicles.
The car shakes over the gate's cattle-stop ahead of a sign that cautions: "Visitors to Te Mata Park are warned that they enter at their own risk." I venture forward only to be bludgeoned by a raft of warning signs. "Warning Poison" ... "Warning Cameras Operating" ... "Lock your cars". I'd driven into a high-security prison in the middle of Jurassic Park.
Further up a perilous road I concede there are hazards in this place. The road becomes a single-lane track that squeezes tighter the higher you go.
At the summit I turn the engine off, turn the laptop on and crouch maimai-like in my car.
Half a sausage roll later I spy about a dozen identically clad dark-suited figures assembling on one of the lower peaks. Their formal attire incongruous with the rugged limestone outcrops. Others atop the Peak stare down at them. "Who are they, and what are they doing?" A group gathers to stare at the group. A moving human landscape has quickly superseded the natural view as the main attraction.
Two sausage rolls on, the dark suits reach the carpark, where it dawns they're young Mormons. "We're missionaries," one tells me. They're a happy bunch, joking and jesting. Most have American accents. One tells me he's from Kiribati. It now pelts down and they flee to their cars.
More rain, then cloud, and the view vanishes. Without its vista the Peak loses all power. Fog to the fence, it's just another carpark. This has a marked effect on visitor numbers. No newbies arrive from the time it takes me to chew through an American doughnut.
Then a silver campervan braves it. A middle-aged couple walks to the summit with a well-manicured dog. "His name is Elton," the woman tells me. "After the singer?" I ask. "Yes, he acts like him."
Obviously cold, the Christchurch couple jump back in their tin tent and head back down, Elton in the front passenger seat.
Over the next hour I realise visitor demographics to the Peak can be easily broken down:
a) Teenagers with lowered cars, making out, or hoping to.
b) Fitness junkies, either on bikes, walking or jogging.
c) Middle aged tourists with belt bags and cameras, who pronounce Te Mata "Tee Mar-tar".
With no food left, and my two hours up, I head back down.
Just past the gates I spot a father and his two children on a three-seated bike, slowly winding their way up. I do a u-turn and intercept them, inspired by the three who tell me they've biked all the way from Flaxmere.
"The weather's perfect, you don't get too hot," the father tells me. He explains the bike, a "tridem", has "efficiency zones", and says how the quest is a concerted family effort. "I can't pedal up the hill unless these guys pedal too, I'll soon know if they're not doing their share."
These three, and the strange cameo from the Mormons, shatters my theory on demographics.
On this peak at least, expect the unexpected.