Evidence of her volcanic past is there in her classic shape. She has seen passing centuries of Maori communities, the arrival of colonial settlers, battles for land, passive resistance to land grabs, the development of farming and now the march of drilling rigs and power pylons across the hills and fields.
As one of so many who has spent their childhood in Taranaki with the mountain always looming large, it is deeply satisfying to return, knowing that no matter how much things change some things remain the same.
We went to a little country school, where life turned around the timetable of farming. Summer was for haymaking, winter was when holidays were taken while the cows were dry, with the mountain providing the daily weather forecast.
The south side of the mountain has an austere quality. Cleared of trees, the paddocks framed by the ferocious bristle of boxthorn hedges, its houses are caught in a constant wind sandwich.
It is either blowing in from the sea or carrying a chill of the mountain.
By comparison, north Taranaki has a softer caste to its landscape. The hills and trees give it a more genteel feel. These days, the lush pasture is increasingly an industrial site, with drilling rigs, flaming gas flare, thundering trucks and heavy machinery on the move as the search for oil and gas gathers intensity. Little Tikorangi is fast becoming Little Texas.
Even dairying in the region has become industrialised.
Most of the small farms have been bought up and merged into huge "factories", capable of milking a 1000 cows a day.
The scale of these operations, geared for maximum production, may prove unsustainable. The bubble formed around milk returns needs only a drought, a fall in international milk prices, or banking troubles, to burst. The massive investment required to run these huge dairying enterprises means there will be many tears over spilt milk.
If that happens, Mt Taranaki will remain unmoved. Having provided the verdant volcanic soil and an ideal climate for farming, she has done her part, now it is up to the people how we manage such natural riches.
Here in Whanganui, I walked alongside the river on a misty morning, not a ripple in the water, the awa reminding me that although I now live faraway, it can still work its wonders on the heart. The river and the mountain exist within another time scale. We come and go but they remain, providing a constant sense of belonging.
Terry Sarten is a writer, musician and social worker. Email feedback: tgs@inspire.net.nz
