This morning I watched mist float through the treetops in the Wanganui Gorge. Soft greenness. The beginning of a new day. Tears ran down my cheeks. I don’t know if it was an overdose of the DEET in the Bushman repellent, or the build-up of lactic acid from three days of uphill hiking, but I felt very emotionally overwhelmed by this powerful, deep sense of connection. And really sore glutes.
We need wild places. Their fragility. Their fierceness. Their vulnerability. Their endurance. The lungs of the earth. This home for gliders, and koalas, and bush rats, and wallabies, and lizards and snakes. Oh fuck, so many snakes.
I’m not great with snakes. If a bush rustles I scream. I’m not the ideal person to take on a four-day hike where you carry your entire water and food supply, your tent, your cooking equipment, your torch, your stove, your clean undies. I mean how can a person even do that? On the back end of a month in Europe and the UK, staying in pretty bloody fancy digs, I agreed to a bushwalk with a bunch of nature-loving friends. People who’ve hiked before. I said yes, went overseas and three days after hitting home on a long haul from Europe I was standing in a carpark wearing gaiters, carrying a 20-kilo backpack, about to head off on the four-day, 42 kilometre self-guided hike through rainforests linking Mount Jerusalem and Nightcap National Parks. It’s called Gidjuum Gulganyi Walk, and it’s beautiful. And a bit brutal.
I might be a top chick, but I’m no Gina Chick. I’ve done my fair share of nature walks. You know the ones – where you drive to the carpark and go for an hour or so, and then drive home. Sometimes you have a picnic. Sometimes you have a swim. If you are going to camp, you drive to said location and bring everything – the esky, the barbie, the folding chairs. I’d never had to think about carrying everything I need for four days, on my back. Like a giant menopausal turtle.
It was good to see how much joy my very inexperienced packing gave to my fellow hikers – I didn’t just bring a lighter, I brought a flamethrower. I didn’t have a super-light backpack, I had a heavy canvas Wolfpak used by backpackers in the ‘90s. I didn’t use a water bladder with a tube, I had heavy metal water bottles. I brought fresh undies for every day. And every night. I was told I only needed two pairs. That seemed very unhygienic. But I guess it helps keeps the snakes at bay.
Everyone I told where I was going said, ‘watch out for snakes’. That is not helpful. I’m walking 42 kilometres through their, space. I quietly asked them for safe passage. I promised to tread lightly. To keep fighting for their wilderness, if they could refrain from biting me. Snakes are very reasonable creatures and upheld their part of the bargain. Although I can’t say the same for bush rats. I found one wearing my undies.
Day one was OK. Eight kilometres, hiking up the mountain. By the time you arrive at camp you are spent. Everyone talks about day two. They say it’s hard. That’s the understatement of the century. Be prepared. Don’t eat breakfast until you get to the first lookout. Leave at 5.30am. Nothing could have prepared me… 90 minutes of relentless ‘up’. Breakfast overlooking the Tweed Valley, a spectacular view, a cup of tea and a sense of achievement. Then more climbing. The Wolfpak on my back weighing me down. The jetlag, the head cold. The fact I’m 57. Did I mention I was the oldest person doing the walk across all the groups by about a decade? We found a fire trail in the shade to spread out sarongs and have a sleep in the heat of the day. Little did we know the worst of the heat was to come.
The harshest part of the walk is along uncovered ridgelines – we did it in 33 degree baking sun. I could feel myself fading. Spots before my eyes. Heart racing. Nauseous. And just more and more hot, open spaces to climb. I realised I was getting heat stroke – so I found the first bit of shade and started doing the cool down. My fellow walkers, Elia and Kiri carried my pack, and limped me to shade. I felt that little voice inside wanting it to be over. Wanting to say it was too hard. To throw a tantrum and go home to my comfortable life. That’s the thing about discomfort – it’s uncomfortable. But I made it to camp. Eleven hours later we had completed the 16km hike. It made day three and day four seem like a breeze. Once you’d made peace with the blisters, the bruises, and the sciatica.
Finishing the walk with my two friends I felt such a great sense of accomplishment. Three women walking together. A woman in her 30s, a woman in her 40s, and me in my 50s. It felt like our solidarity had pulled me through. I appreciated my strong body and the privileges that it brings. But most importantly I was reminded of the power of Country. And how spiritual and profound walking Country can be. It’s hard, but do it. Just pick a cooler month. And cut back on the undies.
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