THE EARLY YEARS

Photo: WannaSurf

I woke early with board shorts on, hopped out of bed and rushed through the house. I knew I needed to get out before the dragon awoke, snarling commands: “Time to clean the windows”. It was always time to clean the windows. I made my way through the front door swift and silent so as to not awake her, and off down the street. Hurriedly I stepped my way along the smooth concrete kerb, often losing balance and having to catch myself on the abrasive bitumen road. It felt sharp as the stones dug into my fleshy foot, the worst when a stone stuck to my foot only to push up further again as I stood on the flat form. I hopped, bounded, all excitement, carefully placing each step. The air was warm against my back from the driving summer easterly. It rushed off the scarp, coming from out desert way, around Boddington I assumed, and then down across the coastal plain with certain urgency all the way to where I stood. The beach.

I cornered the last bend and came to the groyne car park. Nezza, a tall wiry fellow with thick-lensed glasses, and Brenton, a handsome fellow full of aspiration, were already there waiting with enthusiasm. They leaned up against the timber rail fence at the top of the dune, boards in hand. “Dewsey,” they called in eager accord as they caught sight of me. I was thin-framed, tanned and dressed in nothing other than a pair of tired boardies. I beamed a big joyous smile. The sun had just come over the land and now shone brightly against our bare bodies as we stared out on the pearlescent white shores. The ocean was crystal clear, low summer tide. A school of blowfish swarmed productively around the rocks, then out to sea and back again like a strong battalion marching efficient, precise, methodical, patrolling the shallows for any unsuspecting victim and the chance to feed this momentous festivity, sometimes this meant a nick from our little toe! A small wave occasionally heaved up from the depths, building speed until it came crashing down around the shallow bank just out off the groyne’s end and peeling left all the way to the shore, where, in a last attempt, it threw everything it had and broke simultaneously across the wide expanse of beach. The sound echoed up the dunes to where we watched, and then the morning silence took up its peacefulness. The waves weren’t of particular size, and we grumbled amongst ourselves. “When will this flat spell break,” Nezza argued with frustration. He loved his body boarding more than anything else. He was a tall unnatural fellow, goofy and uncoordinated until he stepped off those huge long stalks and lay flat on his skinny belly, where he transformed into a purposeful kid with a hungering passion. He yearned for good surf. Cutting across a wave with determination he would feel natural against all the confusion of youth and his bickering peers. “Shove it king,” we would shout jokingly, cheerfully. He replied with a huge flash of stark white teeth, while masterfully manoeuvring the board as to shower us down with a thin layer of cool salty spray.

We took to the beach where the white sand had already heated up for another hot day in the tremendous summer sun. “I can’t wait for tonight,” Brenton stated, girls and parties obviously on his young pubescent mind. I could sense the vibe and questioned, “Is there anything on tonight?” “Haven’t you heard?”, he resounded, astonished and dumbfounded, “There’s a massive party down at Tobes beach tonight.” He spoke with pure animation, the way he spoke about all things. I wondered if he sold honkynuts to bushies in his spare time. “You hold them like this, and blow.” The son of two predominant hard-working real estate salesmen from town, well one at least. His dad he reckons was just in it for the beer and golf, which he consumed fervently. It was his favourite joke, and he looked up to his failing dad with gratitude and admiration. The same as we all looked up to our Pa, unconditionally. It was hard not getting caught up in his crazy zealous nature. “Sweet. I’m up for that,” I replied.

We talked towards the water, our skin feeling dry against the hot air. The water lapped around our feet, it was the dead of summer and the water offered pleasant relief. Nezza was the first in, taking long ugly sweeps with his gangly arms. His head down, he paddled towards the breakers. Brenton and I watched on, laughing at this ridiculous activity. It wasn’t much deeper than our thighs, so we walked out, slowly accustoming to the cool water. This was all ruined as Nezza loomed up in front, playing his favourite trick. Brenton dunked avoiding the spray, still wet but pride intact. Meanwhile, not concentrating, I dripped, so I jumped in and hurried out towards the back. We caught a few waves, returning as soon as we could to get another. Paddle, jump, bound - it wasn’t the best surf but we would make up for that by catching as many as we possibly could. Between sets we planned our party preparation. Most importantly who could get the grog, and then who had money for it. We investigated all our resources, which could we trust. It was always a difficult task and it would take all day before our humble ten dollars would be spent.

As the day rolled on, we periodically rested up on the beach until it became too warm and we would return again to the cold revitalising surf. Others came and joined us during the day - Josh and his younger brother Brock. The Central Gang, Brad, Mileny, Macca, Wayne, Turner. The phantom, Damon who lived in a huge house overlooking the beach but rarely hung out with the rest of us... Then there were the chicks. Katie and her saucy friend Megan from up the street, Sarah with her mystical dark permed hair and soft voice. Kirsty, the younger, glamorous one we tore shorts over. The car park girls who sat around with Hedges smoking cones. And of course the constant blow of fresh talent. We told them all, we’ll see you down there, we confirmed. They all split sometime during the day, talking feverishly amongst each other. “Who can buy us drink, what money?” It was always the same old tired question, but it did little to curve this intense flurry of excitable adolescences all planning to get stone drunk, and maybe even laid.

The day was getting harshly warm, our hair crusted in dried sea salt, skin crispy. This was about the time Diesel Dyson came down, squinting in the bright light. It was always 1.00pm on the dot, never a minute earlier. He sheepishly skated the hundred-odd metres to the car park, looked at the now diminished surf, shrugged, yawned and began to aimlessly skate up and down the carpark waiting for us to catch sight of him and venture to where he was. “Let’s go for a swim in the pool,” he suggested. “Sure thing,” we agreed as we made our way to his beach shack. It was a refreshing feeling to get out of the sun, and into the cold depths of the fresh water swimming pool. Dyson standing near the kitchen window, wet and invigorated argued with his mum, “Can you get us some food mum,” Cheryl, a beautifully warm lady, resisted momentarily, then gave in to her boy’s commands. Dyson was the middle child, with an older sister who lived with an old biker, and a younger, intense brother who persistently looked up to him. And he hated it. Cheryl did her best for the boys, always understanding, tying to make the most of what appeared to be a terrible situation. I hadn’t seen Dyson’s dad in years, and neither had he, I gathered. Dyson, by default, had become the man of the house.

After we stuffed ourselves we decided we’d go for a skate down town. First we needed to change and collect some gear. I grabbed Nezza, I knew mum loved Nezza because of his mum, a strict old lady with a shriek voice. I knew if I was going to try dodging a bullet I needed a shield, a cover. He was the perfect contender. I had studied her movements over the years, watching carefully as she brought hell and breathed fire on my older siblings. She was a scaly menopausal lady ready to lash any disobedient kid. I treated it as a mind game of precise timing and cunning trickery. I walked in quietly hoping she would be somewhere else in the house, buying me time. “Where have you been,” she barked loudly before noticing Nezza was in tow. “Down the beach,” I smiled, “You remember Nezza”. “Hello Nezza.” I loved it when she used their street name. “How’s your mother.” That was the signal, and I slipped off to my room. Hastily I slipped from my wet shorts, kicking them under the bed as I grabbed at my baggy jeans which lay on the floor beside my junk-covered work desk. A shirt lay at the other end of the room. The scented condom was hidden in my school bag, which lay in the bottom of my cupboard all covered in clothes. Two unmatched holey socks were in the drawer, and one shoe was under the bed while the other was on top. I grabbed the skateboard from beside the door, wallet, phone, keys - check. I walked out, and before mum had a chance to fit in another word I signalled Nezza and shot off through the door. I could hear her scream behind me “Were do you think you’re going.” We were half way down the street, already gone.

We regrouped at Brenton’s joint, a ghastly bunch we were. Our baggy jeans hung low around our hips, wild hair, and shoes that had been patched with “Shoe Goo” from where the coarse grip of the board had worn holes effortlessly. This all doubled as our Sunday best, and no doubt would be tonight’s stunning attire. Maybe a quick squirt of Lynx Africa under the arm would finish it off. Speedily we took off down the road terrorizing anyone, especially old ladies on gophers. Just the sight of us unruly bunch taunted them with horror. The south west sea breeze blew through our muddled hair. It felt cool on this summer afternoon. I thought about many things, yet the same thing. It was always the about the girls. Their cute friendly smiles and soft joyous young bodies, just to make them once. Smell her fruity impulse spray which danced playfully around her neck, press my lips against hers. Would she pull away, or would she be inclined? I’m sure the others thought the same.

We skated around the park, then off around the local theatre. We had decided to get Nezza to buy us booze - it worked every now and then. He would take off his thick-brimmed spectacles, and march off blindly into the bottle-o. We were sure he’d get busted. His goofy, fumbling façade gave up his act before he even entered the store. We mucked around at the bottom end of the carpark on a small loading bay. Sure to stay out of sight. In a short while he came back beaming that glorious smile, in his arms a couple of bottles of cheap booze tucked out of sight. We carefully packed it away in Brenton’s backpack. The sun by this stage was hanging lazily in the sky. With an upheaval of excitement, we traced our steps back home high spirited. We had the beverages and the night was young.

The Bluff - Stirling Range

Photo: Wikipedia

Chewing lackadaisically at the third burger, followed with a long drawn slurp of sugary syrup cola I looked ahead to see the majestic silhouette of the Stirling Range tower into the cloudless sky. With my belly hung portly over my belt I enthusiastically swung the car right.... "When in Rome I guess".


Photo: Juice

One sure way to knock a triumphant Four Star Hungover to another world of hurt! Walk up a Mountain!

Four Star Hangover (****)
Life sucks. Your head is throbbing. You can't speak too quickly or else you might puke. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze. You wore nice clothes, but that can't hide the fact that you only shaved one side of your face. For the ladies, it looks like you put your make-up on while riding the bumper cars. Your eyes look like one big red vein, and even your hair hurts. Your sphincter is in perpetual spasm, and the first of about five shits you take during the day! brings water to the eyes of everyone who enters the bathroom.

Find out more about the five star rating.

Rambling with whiskey

"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..."
~ Jack Kerouac, On the Road.

Today it occurred to me that I only have seven days of employment left. Yes that’s right after bitching about the taxing task of conscious melancholy it’s become somewhat apparent that well, it doesn’t really apply to me. I guess I always knew this but I was so lost in the whirlpool of enlightenment that I almost forgot I’m going to Tasmania in two weeks indefinitely. Most commonly recognized as the sweet wispy fluff of a female’s erogenous nether regions, Tasmania is a place of dense impenetrable bush. Oh the sweet tragic truth. To some this land of exotic fruit has represented wealth and vitality, and of course for those few who are now the richest in Australia it has not disappointed. I digress

No this is not out of a dodgy 70's flick!!

You see, some years ago I dreamt of a world, a world where I could suckle on the sweet bitter nectar of cheap alcoholic drink and indulge in the even cheaper girls under the balmy sun. All lips and nipples and oily skin, tantalising hands plunging through the icy depths of the crystal blue ocean. I treasured this idea as the epicentre of clarity, truth, beauty and understanding. I set to this as my chore, as audacious as it may sound and the years flew past. But this was without regret as I would learn. Over these “special” years I learnt of things more powerful then the jubilant pleasure of a supple “motor boating” and as skilful as the art of true happiness, or the fulfilling wholesomeness of wonton soup with the Art Director. It was fate some would say, others though like myself would be more inclined to suggest such terms; reckless excessiveness, exuberant alcoholism and pleasurable disappointment. Failure it would seem brought meaning to this chaotic perplexity.

They ask me, “What does this all mean, where will I go and how will I live? “I will write a book” I exclaim, “People will bow to its tremendous awesomeness and bask in its splendour”.. “D.I.L.L.I.G.A.F” <--(Hint; Kevin Bloody Wilson.)

Burn, Burn, Burn..

*Damn I wish I could find a picture of the Mambo art claiming the female anatomy to be a “Map of Tasmania”.. Seriously that was the best sex education I ever got.

Guess it's hard for others to see..

Monkey boy stood in front of the old pub, the lights were off inside. He wrapped at the door, no answer. He tried again this time successful. Joe the publican, a tall strong character stumbled wearily out from back in the live in quarters, flicking the switch on the wall as he made to the door. Meanwhile 20 odd clicks up the road I wrestled at the wheel, my eyes were growing tired. I had been on the road for about 4 hours now, battling the sweeping curves on the South West Hwy back towards Perth. Periodically slowing down enough to pass another small failing town. Lumberjacks moved unhurried up the street exhausted and confused. “Wanted: Customers no experience required apply within” I read, I considered turning around for a picture.. But instead I kept driving straight on out of town.

It was Monday night and I imagine Joe was busy relaxing out back in front of his television when Monkey Boy arrived. He’s a grand fellow though, salt of the earth - or maybe business was to slow to pass up a quick exchange with some townsmen in need of quite ale. Either way he had set up the bar and switched on the Foxtel by the time I arrived. Out road side the dim light flickered within the deteriorating sign, signally me to turn off. Inside Monkey Boy and another old farmer sat at the bar. Middies have downed, they feverishly talked about the recent harvest. Monkey Boy had only just cut the tractor’s heart the day before. He goes on. On the wall hung a large picture of a cow, ribbons strung around its girth. I took a stool, and ordered some beer. Monkey boy and I laughed casually as we shared an indecent swag of adventure, and well, miss adventure. I realised it’s been a while since we last caught up. I guess the time had come and we had both gone our separate ways.

Sunday, before all this madness begun I was comfortably sitting with James at the old Narrogin Hotel, top end of the South West. We had just finished a three day walk following some over grown railway formations which winds through the felled Jarrah of old, and had hitched our way back into town. Over a few beers we talked restlessly about continuing on, flog work off and take up the 930km track permanently till we hit Albany. Where to after that.. Hell maybe hitch across the border out east.. The Flinders Range, the Great Ocean Walk, Paddle the raging torrents of the Franklin, Its idealist, it’s perfect I though excitedly. But tomorrow we had to work. By the third pint the idea of work wasn’t sitting right with me, I sighed, and suggested to James we should head down south and catch up with the Intrepid Two. He laughed, agreed and passed it off like the rest of our conversations. But it was far too late for me and I was bent on the idea, time to head off, first thing.. Well after another pint.

“Work” he argued. To consider such oppressing obligations and responsibility! I filled a bag with some food and packed the car, fare welled James and hit the road. The plan was to follow the South West Hwy though the old timber towns and out across to Pemberton. A stiff drive for a late afternoon and a belly full of James Squire, I pulled into the bottle shop and grabbed a case of beer. The afternoon smelt sweet with the fresh cuts of hay, the sun burned a bright pink and orange though the smoky clouds which lay across the grassy plains, Hastily, I worked the needle on the Speedo cutting my way south, all the while clutching a bottle with an invigorated grip.

I started thinking for a bit and wondered where I’m going with all this. Mum had always warned me away from my reckless mates, “They’re no good, the lot of them” she would argue. I paused for a moment, and for those few seconds the passenger seat seemed oddly out of place, empty…. “Bad influence”.. The words repeated, as if she was right beside me. I pushed the pedal to the floor and smiled contently. Alone, I burned off into the warm evening sun.

Rotton Beautiful; The Story of Lucas

I remember he was a weather beaten type with dark wild hair covering his blood shot eyes. Slung across his tanned back was an old worn quicksilver pack, the type we had in the 90’s with the thin padded bridle. His boardies hung loose around his thin frame, and on his feet he sported a well thrashed set of wafer thin plugs.

We were heading to a punk rock show when I met him with some friends. He was one of the other guy’s uncles, aged 30 odd, an intoxicated degenerate. He wrestled with his shirt, covering up as we approached the venue. We shot down a dark alley where the club entrance leered out from beneath the darkness. His rough trodden appearance didn’t really fit these freshly inked, crisp black punk rock bodies which crowded around the door. He was more a wasted surf grunge sort, and he didn’t care for much else.

The gig was heavy in a little venue, the crowd surged forward with furious momentum pushing the front row up amongst the band. I remember feeling the boot of the guitarist rest heavily against my shoulder as he did his best to hold this barrage of atavistic savages from taking up the stage. He pushed his way to the front wild and crazy, throwing his body throughout the set. We drunk Corona’s like deranged sailors and stumbled around endlessly until the concert wore to an end.

He left us at the taxi, trumping off down the busy lit street calling back something about the morning. We carried on to the Casino, where the bouncer’s laughed viciously at our attire and sent us school like children home.. Home was down west end of town, a hotel with an eighties décor which smelt of rotten carpet and creaked loudly as we splayed across the floor. I focused on his bag, sat abandoned in the corner of the room as I dozed off into a deep beer induced lumber.

I woke, to a painful headache and a swollen body. It was around the time I had first been infected with Ross River, a mild version of malaria. The body took to the alcohol like aids, leaving me weak and weary. His bag still stood solemnly in the corner of the room. It looking jagged and rough, I assumed it had seen some hard miles. Within the bag contained only two item's, A carton of cheap Indo cigarettes and 3/4 full bottle of whisky.. He was the real deal. The room spun into festivity, but it was apparent that he was still missing.

It wasn’t until some strange hour just before check out that he re-emerged from the depths of the City’s bowels looking shattered from the night before. He grunted. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel up to sharing where he had been, he just couldn’t recollect.

One of the guy’s drove us out to the coast, figuring fresh air and good scenery might help cure our dreaded hangovers. We ordered some burger’s and took position on the moist grassy banks which overlooked the activity on the beach. I remember him talking softly and politely. He enjoyed treating the girls courteously when they would listen. Conjuring up a light conversation, as they busily strolled past, tightening their clutch on any Gucci belongings. There was something humbling about it, maybe he thought they would look past the deranged mop of hair or his booze soaked breath. They never did and nor did he ever stop trying.

I liked him tremendously, his whole façade and careless nature appealing to a depth that I could not quite understand.. I just knew I wanted to know more. We chatted about the road a little. And when the time came to drive back home, he said he would head back to the City to try find a bus back north. I opted to join him to the City, abandoning my only ride south. I wanted to know more, more about his style and where he had been. My curiosity had been overwhelmed.

We headed off up the road to the train station. I remember it being a sweltering day, the Perth dry summer sun scorched our skin and boiled the beer in our bellies. We sat for some time waiting for the train until we realised it wasn’t coming. It was going to be a hefty trek in this penetrating sun I thought as we made off. Time passed, and we chatted some more. “The beach, sun and beer” he would reminisce of another recent trip. We came across an old corner store still operating amongst the quite streets. We grabbed some water and took refuge under the shady branches of a verge tree. I always loved verge trees, the old ones which spread their wings across the lane and break up the monotony of suburbia.

A grubby black “night party” bus come bustling past full of passenger’s, and we realised our only hope was to get a ride. We rushed off up the street in pursuit waving it down. The bus was tightly packed with sweating bods from the beach which made the air think and humid. It was a disgusting scene, and the alcohol toiled within our brains.. The humidity keep building, and he suddenly became quite.. He looked ill, desperately pushing through the crowd to find a window… I could see what was coming, and tried to ease the mood with some jokes. It made no difference as he rejected the foul poison through one of those small sliding contraptions. The car’s driving on the tight street swerved to dodge it projection. Vomit drizzled down the side of the bus. It was horrific. The bus came to a stop and we rushed to exit before he could let go again.

Instantaneously he tore his shirt from his back and gasped heavily, taking every breath of fresh air with gratitude. It was a drastic scene to say the least, and I was now feeling uneasy from the mixture of dense body odour with the strong hint of spew. We made for some shade to hide from all the chaos. This was the way I met Lucas, no layers of paint.

He told me about his trips afar, across the ocean to tropical paradises where the beer was cheap and the surf warm. The ladies he would continue, full of passion and fire, yet sweet and humble to touch. He worked hard on some boats up north, he told me, quietly saving his pennies for that next opportunity. To lie carelessly once again in the warmth of a soft afternoon breeze, filled with the sweat tender smell of freshly crack coconut. White pearlescent shores, gorgeous girls, turquoise beaches, he would repeat as if in a pleasurable trance while staring blankly into the distance. I was lost with his story as he re-stepped the days of his past, and future.

I went home that evening knowing there was more to life than I had ever believed in, had ever experienced. A five year cocoon had just fallen in two, broken free from its tight mould and I felt animated and alive.. It was the day I felt reborn and swollen with adventure.

The Artist.. Part 1

Photo by: Lex Harris

Well as part of this ongoing sabbatical of mine (which I consider is the best expression to sum up life) I find that I am continually meeting heaps of fabulously talented and inspirational people. And as part of this blog, dear avid faithful tremendously awesome reader’s I will endeavour to bring to your attention just a snippet of these kind folks.

First off the cuff may I present too you the masterful Mr Lex Harris, a well travelled sort who has an excellent Image Gallery online. (Sign in if you desire a larger version for admiration)



Photo by: Lex Harris.

As you can see from this image Lex isn’t the type sitting around waiting for adventure on his Foxtel account. Opting for the more hands on approach has seen him collect an impressive array of photo’s from varies parts of the world. I think the word ANTARTICA gives you the right impression of what you might expect from his work. Other places include Argentina, Indonesia, Pakistan, Tasmania (Of particular interest to me) and my home state Western Australia.

For those of you who don’t particularly have the time to sift through extensive files of images, I urge you to take a look at the Showcase where Lex has been kind enough to collate some of his favourite shot’s which feature his astounding collaboration with life.

While I have not had the fortune in meeting Lex in person, I can say he is a very courteous fellow and I appreciate his time in replying to my email for permission to host some of his brilliant images. I first heard of his site though his brother John (The gargantuan fellow pictured in my recent post The training begins)

I think that just about wraps up the first in my new series. Please drop a comment if you enjoyed this post, as I have a heap I would love to share.



Photo by: Lex Harris

Without a paddle! Part 2

Friday arvo my boss made some lame joke to James and I about cuddling for warmth. We laughed merrily at the time, clutching a fresh beverage tightly within our grip.

My feet were dreadfully bruised and James was blistered from his sandals. Not too far to go now, the track should lead off the road and back into the bush. I assured. The pace was really slowing up and the temperature was dropping. We mindfully tried to dodge small stones laid out over the track which weren’t causing difficulty when we started but my feet couldn’t possibly take any more.

It was never considered what we might find when reached the hut. The hut was hidden in the night and we almost run into it before realising we had finally made it. Hastily we searched for Dad. The hut was full of walkers, so we scurried up the embankment and check the tent area. This too was full, but not with the tents we were expecting to see. Our worst fear was now starting to grip us, as we paced further up the track to where the car should be parked thinking the camp may have been set up there because it was already full. I argued. But it was over, and I knew it before we reached the road… Helplessly we looked up and down the track, but there was no sign of activity. Not even some fresh tracks to indicate he had been past.

The weather report said it was going to be five degree’s that night, maybe even a little less out here in the valley. Desperate and depraved, we headed off back towards the hut seeking some warmth. Just out the front of the hut was a sleepy camp fire burning bright red amongst the austere gloom.. Our saving grace and refuge we agreed. We raced over to it and stood in its radiance. And soon enough the piss soaked wetsuits started letting off a horrid aroma, but who are we to complain!

We decided to do some investigation around the hut to see who was around. One of the happy hikers woke by the noise of us stalking the hut and pointed her headlight at me to have a gander.. “I know you” she exclaims, “You’re that guy from last week”. How could she be right, last week some 100-odd-kilometres away, I had awoken her in the exact same manner on a cold Friday night. She must have thought I was a right twit.. And honestly I felt a little embarrassed, seeing as though I swore last week I’d never leave home without a tent. This time I didn’t even have a sleeping bag!

Up on the top bunk just above this person was a right surprise. Alex and Bell the intrepid female adventures from last week’s tramp were curled up snug in there minus ten sleeping bags on cushy down mats. Briefly I thought about waking them up and inviting me and my piss soaked wetsuit up for a crude spooning. But as tempting as a warm sleeping bag and some hot girls sounded, I wasn’t up to waking them in the middle of the night. I’ve had my own experiences before with an axe wielding psychopath in the dead of the night. I was stood helplessly against a tree while he blinded me with an intense beam of light, making crazed suggestion about burying me out here in the bush… Could you imagine the reaction I would get waking a chick up in the middle of the bush, while blinding her with a head light! Freezing beside a fire sounded far more lucrative… Plus, I’ve got a girlfriend! Maybe I should have sent James the Titan Ranga to test the waters first.

The shivers had started setting in as our bodies steadily lost the warmth we gained from moving. I knew it was the first sign of Hypothermia and if the second phase of uncontrollable shivers set in I knew I would need to seek some help. Fast. Sitting beside the fire was our only real hope to get though the night as it didn’t look like Dad wouldn’t be coming any time soon. We stoked the fire and waited..

The night just got longer as the joke grew tired and disillusioned. We attempted to sleep off the hours, but couldn’t shake the cold. Back to back, hugging the fire ring with our legs.. Nothing would work! Spoon??? Hell no! That shit was only ever funny on “Without a Paddle”, which strangely enough resembled this exact same situation. I can’t stress my friendly readers how long the night was, and it really made me think about those who have been much less fortunate then we were.. Holding on to life for days on end in some small icy confinement, often with broken limbs!

The next day couldn’t have come soon enough, and when we heard the hollow call of a kookaburra we both felt relieved. But the situation was still rather tense. While we might be getting a chance to warm up, it didn’t give reason as to why my Dad hadn’t turned up. By this stage I was thinking the worst. Seriously if he couldn’t find the road he definitely knew the trail in. He could have packed a bag and walked in with some essentials. What could have happened that he couldn’t walk?

As the morning broke a few of the campers came to join us around the fire. We shared our story and one of the guys offered us the use of a sat phone. Initially I turned down the offer thinking that he probably wouldn’t get reception, but as the morning hurled into full swing I gathered I may need to stimulate some action.. I called the ranger. The ranger was great and offered to help us conduct a search. I knew the basic procedures, which determined that I couldn’t leave the pickup point for any reason including to search. So with some eyes on the ground I was pretty confident we’d track the wonderer down. It took a fair while, but eventually we heard the sound we had been listening for all night.. Cars arriving. Dad looked horrific, he blamed himself but we reassured him we were fine.

It’s funny how everything is forgotten once the first beer arrives! All the suffering the night before now just became another great saga full of adventure and peril. And even better when the intrepid female adventures woke from there deep slumber and called out gleefully when they recognized me. Kind of excited, probably just shocked they were happy to see us and divulged there plan to take the day off for a rest. Super, we thought knowing we had heaps of drink and food which we never got into the night before.

All in all it was a top weekend and I’m still planning to give this paddle another go if I can find the time before the water recedes. It’s also inspired me to look into some ocean yak’ in.. But that’s for another time.

A deep seeded resemblance of Deliverance

Sometimes things don’t always go to plan.

For example:

Like that night spent in Melbourne Airport freezing cold and under dressed after a freak occurrence happened and my flight was hit by lightning.

Maybe the time a 34 inch rear wheel hurtled past the passenger side window after some nuts came loose. The car was travelling at 110kmh at the time and we came to a very sudden stop!

Same trip, this time the radiator cracked 180km from the closest bitumen road and further still to the Overlander road house.

Did I mention my finger had also been accidently sliced through the operating thermo fan in a feeble attempt to repair the damaged car?

Then there’s the more recent trip where a hose leading into the radiator burst, leaving us stranded in the desert on a 40 degree day with no tools or water. Just a big blue esky full of beer.

Or when my tent zipper burst open when a drunk Juice fell through the door. Who then proceeded to get out of his wet clothes only to fall asleep a little uncovered and wake up midway through the night with a severe inching condition.

So with all these little mishaps under my belt some could say I was really prepared for this weekend’s short comings. Well you would think anyway and as my last post indicated I was busily preparing myself for a weekend on the high river paddling down some rapids and often long stretches of calm water. There was very little time for trip preparation as it’s been hectic between work, friends and weekly expeditions. It wasn’t decided until late Thursday night where we would attempt to paddle. We, being a friend from work who was also keen.

Opting to go budget for this trip I decided to dig out what I can only describe as an old medieval style polo yak. Sitting about five feet in length, it was a rather snug fit for a 100kg, 6” bohemian like myself. My father, whose judgement at times is rather ill, assured me it’s a good little rig and shouldn’t be too hard to handle. Huge oversight.

Friday afternoon rolled around, so James and I set off straight from work. We had arranged to meet my father in a small country town just out from the desired drop point. I was sick of being starved for the past few weekends hiking so I opted for a lavish weekend of food and booze instead of the carry what you got deal. A support crew was essential, so Dad opting to take the reins for this trip instead of paddling with us which seemed okay by me. So he had a loaded trailer with all the vital items, THE BIG BLUE ESKY being on top of the list.

We then decided being the type that we are, that we could probably handle a short night paddle before pulling in for some more zesty beverages and peppered steak. Simple I concluded on Thursday night, Dad had been to the pickup point before he claimed, and wouldn’t have any trouble getting the car in. I should let you readers know here, that I had never paddled this section of the river, which is much higher up than the mellow flats I’m accustomed to. I should also admit that I had never paddled this medieval creation either. And just to add some topping to an over balanced cake, I’d never paddled at night!

We arrived close to seven o’clock, by which time the sun had settled and the quarter moon was glimmering in the distance. We headed down to the water, which rushed hastily through the fallen paperbarks and off into the bleak darkness. The scene was horrific really but this only heightened our enthusiasm and the adrenaline started thumping. Impatiently we necked another oat concoction and suited up in our wetties. Appropriately named I will conclude. We then insured we had all the right equipment aboard. Beer. Then whatever else that wouldn’t weigh us down.

The water felt cold, but not as bad as I had expected thankfully. We gently set ourselves up in the shallows, with my arse incredibly snug between the hips. We pushed off with our paddles and instantly I was letting on water as the unstable beast avoided control. The small nimble medieval craft did it’s best to buck the sailor so to speak and I exploded into a ball of profanity as I tried to gain some balance with some swift strokes with the paddle. This just pushed me further in the rapidly moving water.. I was off like a whippet on crack, bashing through the bushes and deeper into the night. I was out of control, when I realised this craft was going to win this battle and I was over thrown. I struggled in the busied water to release my clenched cheeks. It was difficult getting in, never mind getting out upside down, in dark icy water! I gasped for some air then went under.

All the paddling lessons came back to me like one hasty kick from a horse. Foremost the one which involved taking a quick plunge into the icy depths before setting off on any expedition in cold waters. The body can shut down from the shock of the water they enforced at the time. I remember I was busy throwing some rocks at my friend.. But this time it was for real, and I was under water. Everything was dark save for the dim beam my head light eliminated. I set to the task of escaping my cell, but it was proving harder than expected. I pushed hard at the sides of the yak, feverishly trying to free the butt. Thank the lordies I practise my breathe hold regularly for free diving or I would be in a serious pickle! I surfaced awakened by the chill of the water and grabbed at the first tree I saw as the water swept me further along. Somehow I had managed to hold onto the yak and paddle up to this point, but things were getting much harder as the yak started sinking with the weight of the water and the push of the current. James meanwhile was having his own shaky start, and he tried to manage his barge through the fallen trees. I urged him to help take hold the raft before I lost my strength (figuratively of course). It was an impossible request though, James having enough difficulties was in no way able to assist, and I had to make a decision soon.

I released my sturdy* grip of the tree trunk, opting to stay with the craft hoping the rapid would expire into deeper waters soon. It was apparent though that this would be some time before I was able to get out of this predicament as the yak levered itself against yet another underwater snag. I’ll inject at this point I should have let go and let the craft do its own thing.. But I didn’t. I dove down and let the current do the rest, under the snag we went. I glared into the glowing murky water unable to see what to expect, but eventually I surfaced with enough to avoid some more tree branches. James was keeping up with me, trying his best to push me towards the bank.

When we finally reached the bank, I was feeling pretty exhausted and instantly started having terrible thoughts as it looked doubtful my beers would have made the epic voyage. Almost tears. But my friend’s, good news was on the horizon as the water started receding from its containment. The distinct sound of bottles clashed at the toe of the raft. Happy days, it would seem. I proceeded to reposition my craft for second takeoff, it would take more than a little spill to buck this cowboy dear avid readers.

The craft was as unstable as a journalist leaving the pub. Twisting up every stoke of the paddle and started letting water in again. A splash deck may have helped here, but again it was the CHEAP option. We battled for some time until we come into a clearing which I thought would be easier. The fight was not over though as the yak sat heavily in the water making it difficult to keep up to the likes of the dagger. We pushed on still until we started into another serious fight with the paperbarks. At this point James offered to make an attempt to ride this bitch out, which I gratefully accepted. But this was to be to no avail, as he instantly found himself in the same predicament as I was a few minutes earlier. But this time, he dropped the paddle and argued loudly as he watched it float away into the night. I chased the paddle leaving James stranded against the tree.

I was standing on a fallen tree, paddle in hand when I caught sight of James floundering along. He was sitting on the capsized vessel surfing in down the river like a cat in a pool. I pulled the crafts to the bank exhausted, ready to accepting defeat. But accepting defeat still didn’t put us in warm clothes or food in our bellies. Actually defeat only put 13km between us, and that which we could only dream about. Sigh. We weighed our option, and quickly decided that the foot falcon was up for a burn. Only problem, no shoes! My trusty set of flip flops were gone too, obviously sailed off with the high tide when we were busily trying not to drown.

I had some idea where I might be able to find a walking trail I walked a few weeks ago and set off up the hill. It wasn’t hard, and we soon found ourselves heaving down a dark single track through overgrown eucalypts. It was a canter of sorts, running until it hurt to breathe or the need to gulp some more beer came, usually the later. We were making good time I thought, but no matter how you look at it 13 clicks barefoot is a long way even if you weren’t wearing a cold wet wetsuit (You can’t just unzip to have a piss!).

We talked about a lot of things, but mainly about the peppered steak and some warm clothes. The joke was growing old quickly and we were starting to crave some comfort. But little did we know, this was only the beginning and it was starting to have a deep seeded resemblance of Deliverance.

to be continued...

The Weary Legs of a Warrior.

Mount Cooke Jarrah

It was an upwards climb. The morning sun was gently warming the air but I was already feeling the sweat bead steadily, the 14kg pack riding grudgingly against my clammy cotton shirt. I stepped, pivoted and bound off the right foot. Focused on the prize.. I’m alone. The first few kilometres pass without incident but my muscles feel stretched, an avowal of fitness or the distinct lack of. I pick up the pace, racing against myself, against the burn.. I must.

White Spider Orchid (Caladenia longicauda)

Trudging confidently I see the second group up ahead and I sharpen my focus, fixate on the ground, left, right I count.. Faster, again. Secretly I hope they feel a zephyr as I pass and quickly disappear into the old Jarrah Forrest ahead. Yes the old Jarrah Forrest, burnt out maybe a year ago now grows wildly, fresh young shoots spill freely out across the defined track. Flowers spread their bright coloured bloom and greet the much rewarding insects which hover somewhere above. The old trees however, are hollowed and burnt, looking dated, twisted and drab. The strong root’s ploughed deep into the earth held the tree steadfast, as the brutal, unrelenting and penetrating flames leaped higher, consuming the limber canopy in a swift articulated burst. A glorious flame reportedly sailed 30m above the tree line. The heat had eaten its core, slowly, painfully until it stood precariously heavy, worn, charred and tired. Faster I remind myself, stay on the run.

The lengthy strides of this vigour’s march have left my boots rubbing furiously and I start to cringe at the terribly fierce burn on the back of my ankle. Slowing down is an option but to what avail, to limp, to fail?, Anyway the pain feels good I argue with myself, it reminds me I’m alive. A deep breath of air bursts into my lungs reinvigorating my step as the sweat beads rolled off my flushed face. It’s a race, a race against myself.

Blue Leschenaultia (Leschenautia Biloba)

Rocky raccoon checked into his room
Only to find gideons bible
Rocky had come equipped with a gun
To shoot off the legs of his rival
His rival it seems had broken his dreams
By stealing the girl of his fancy
Her name was magil and she called herself lil
But everyone knew her as nancy

I could see the road I so desperately needed to see looming up in front. It had been around 16km at this stage. Hope. I stir into a quickened shuffle while repeating the words from my iPod. My right knee moved contortedly, the bodies last ditch effort to remove the weight off these hideous blisters. It was uncontrollable and uncomfortable. Left, right, I keep the count in my head for the fear of defeat..

Later that evening two young red faced girls trundled in buckled under the weight of a stiff day’s walk and a heavy pack. I pick lazily at the blisters as I watch them come up to the hut. I was surprised to see them actually. They were young and well female. The type you could imagine dressed in a pretty evening frock at some trendy downtown bar on a Saturday night, surrounded my muscularly blokes drinking PURE BLONDE. Anyway side tracked, we got talking about the day’s events as they started the mundane duty of unpacking their burden. As you do of course, when two rather attractive ladies stumble carelessly out from behind some bushes. I was thinking shit hot how’s me luck! Anyway quietly I was feeling quiet chuffed about my epic stomp that day and was probably looking forward to a bit of modest boasting (Wrestled seven stubborn crocodiles, while I peacefully ate home purchased Chinese by a creek blah, blah, killer koala’s, shooting starfish, angry gangster gorilla’s). Yep I was ready to feed’em up a rip snorter, well that is until these girls started flabbering on about why they were so late arriving. I was shattered. Young, lush and petite girls had walked an extra 10km, 3 mountains and 5kgs more than I had. Instantly I felt a yearning to get back on my feet, pack the bag and get moving, keep going, pushing the distance.. It’s not a jealous thing. No it’s just the challenge which is so tempting.

The challenges which will make a man achieve great things, reach his dreams and keep him; on the road.

Actually who am I kidding, my feet hurt like shit and my body felt tender in parts I don’t care to know about. Dumbfounded that these chicks had walked so far highlighted something rather significant, I’m really am unfit! There was no way I could have just done what they did. Possibly it’s the copious amount of delicious oat soda I’m quite partial too indulging on any other week, no. night. Maybe it’s the extraordinary amount of hours I spend firmly flat on my butt in the office or in the car. Whatever it is, I probably should think about doing less or more of it or I’m going to be in a world of hurt when I get to Tasmania. Training so far my friends has not scratched the surface!

This weekend though, I will attempt what I set out to do quite some time ago.. Paddle the Murray (For clarification it’s the dreary and dingy Murray one on the West Coast, what did I say. I’m unfit!)

UGLY!

Anyway I will endevour to attach some delightfull pictures later (when I'm not at work). Until then, I hope you catch some crabs!

Pincushion Coneflower (Isopogon dubius)