A rough scetching

... a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils and deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures... Jack Karouac

Eye’s watering, lungs stinging, legs burning. My well greased “Mutiny Burlish” bmx careered down a ridiculously steep Hume road.. An easy 80 clicks I’ll assume - by the way the front wheel wobbled stupidly – reverberating through to my firm grip. I focused laboriously on the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill – praying for a safe passage. With hast I glanced over my shoulder checking for the traffic coming up behind.. A big Toyota 4WD dashing down the hill close behind.. But I’m pulling away effortlessly, putting distance between me and this concoction of death and ignorant one man mediocrity – the hill keeps descending. I focus again on the goal.. a crash at this speed – nothing other then a loose worn pair of boardies, a singlet and a set of clean Dunlop volleys – would have me grinding bone against bitumen.. Fleshy skin folding back like a knife to warmed butter. I bow my head down so my teeth almost bight the cold stiff metal handle bar, with my arse millimeters off the open rear wheel which is spinning ferociously – as to expelling some drag, lightening speed….

It’s a balmy afternoon - here in Scarborough - a coastal suburb north of Perth. The sun hovers somewhere on the horizon, just a lazy slack burning light illuminating my path down this reckless atavistic bum slid.. No brakes.. Sweat cools against my skin as the air bursts across my flush face.. I’m scared. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.. That flooded river in the bows of Tasmania maybe– too deep to cross – too strong to attempt – just waiting, praying, my only path of refuge lay seventy odd kilometres south. Seventy kilometres of leech infested waist deep mud, rain, mountains, rivers and dense overgrown shrub. Cut from the world I know and love, left here to ponder - the stone cold soberness of reality grabbing sharply at any loose nerve ending. “I could die here” I though as I watched the tannin coloured river pace forcefully through the brush and trees on the flooded banks. I had woken startled in the middle of the night as some rat like creature clawing at my arm, seeking refuge from the hellish cold and wind. I ignored it at first, the pain in my leg muscles being my primary focus, but then as it moved closer around my face I gave it a gentle shove.. “Get me the f*&k out of here”, waking dad from his drowsy slumber. He had few words, sour and twisted.. He grumbled some then rolled over and unzipped the tent, stepped out into the darkness. “You got to be kidding me, come check this out”. By this stage I was wide awake, barely sleeping to begin with, as the pain of torn muscle worked feverishly to repair itself on an insufficient diet of dried food. I folded out of the layers of warmth.. my thermal liner and duck down bag – searched around in the darkness for my head light which floating up around my makeshift blow-up pillow. Finally I found it in the darkness and switched it on – stepping out of the tent. Instantly I felt the freeze between my toes and as I looked around I become somewhat dumbfounded.. Everything was covered with over an inch of icy hail.. It was thick, like nothing I’d seen before. I hurried myself out of the cold and into the tent now, huddling into the warmth of my sleeping bag. A wave of depression rushed over me, and I listened intently to the mad rush of water 20 odd metres over.. Was there any hint of slowing, would we be able to cross tomorrow?

I slammed my foot between the tire and the seat stay.. at first the tire just burned across my sole until it jammed hard enough to lock the rear up.. The back end skidded wildly over the road, clinging to the bars defying I summoned the front to stay in line. I was close to the bottom of the hill when it all went wrong. The lights had changed and I could see a long line of traffic now rushing forward.. I was out of control and had few choices.. I guided the bike towards the curb – now worried this sudden change in speed would have me dead with the force of two tonne all metal madness rushing me down flat. I hit the soft curbed and ejected myself over the bars, taking a short dive into the grassy verge. The bike toppled over and came to rest nearby. My nerves went full steam into electrifying chaos… I lay there momentarily gripping myself from the inside.

That morning I woke restlessly, looking at the roof of the small tent.. Some leeches moved slowly across the fly working relentlessly trying to find the quickest path to my blood. I flicked at them, sending them off in another direction.. I shook the bag off myself quickly, and rushed through the zipper.. I hoppled swiftly to the banks of the river.. I had read in some guide book that flooded river’s recede quickly.. But not this cold and icy morning. The river was now higher then the night beforehand. Another wave of depression hit… the pure isolation left me shaking. Such a desolate place, so venerable and lonely.. Dad and I chatted a little but it was too somber to carry on. I wasn’t hungry and neither was Dad so we huddled back into the tent and waited.. The day was long, cramped and cold. I turned intermittently when my back ached too much, or my hip got sore through the thin thermal mattress. The whole time, flushes of stress gripped at me as the realization came that I was stuck.. There was no way back and no way forward.. I was forced to be still, to meditate. By chance, I was reading at the time the philosophy novel “The Zen and Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.. kindly lent to me by Alex, one of the intrepid two from earlier adventures. Maybe it was fate.. Page 286 – “Some people are true master’s of stuckness”.. I got up and walked around camp a bit, trying to stretch my tired legs and meditated on those few words. I had left in such a rush – and I knew I had left something behind. A piece of puzzle that was hidden under the couch.. like that silly game I would play on my brother when I was younger.. I’d hide a piece so that I knew I could finish the jigsaw puzzle at the end. But this time I hadn’t, not sure why, but I knew I hadn’t and now I was firmly stuck. Stuck in this rut of life I had built around me and stuck next to this stupid f%$king river. It seemed so clear now, not then.. I needed to go home, back to WA, tally ho! But first, this creek!

I collected myself from the gutter and hopped back on the bike.. All nerves now as I peddled off up the hill on the other side. The intrepid two were having a BBQ and I was going to drop the book off and have a few quite ales. Back at the river Dad and I woke for the second morning. Our hopes were high that the river would have settled. We had observed the day before that it was receding slowly, and it hadn’t rained too hard during the night. At first sight it didn’t look like it was any lower, but as I peered into the water I could just make out the bottom.. Not what I had hoped for but it would have to do. We rushed to pack the rucksack’s again – dad talked about technique which left me concerned.. His mind seems to be deteriorating in his older years and I tried explaining that he should keep his weight high and lean against the sticks, but he was adamant. “face the flow and lean into the current”. He was scared, as was I.. But the adrenaline had taken over his rational. As we approached the water I suggested we get in high as it wasn’t flowing so hard, but Dad in his crazy fueled flurry dropped straight off the bank directly into the fury of the rapid – following quickly with few words I grabbed at his pack… He went ridged, all stiff without words, eyes fixated against the opposing bank – as white as a ghost. He couldn’t move and the water soon started to overpower his stance, slowly sliding him across the slimy stone underfoot. I wrenched him back from the strap of his pack and he lost his balance, then forward as I used my extra weight to move to the safer, shallower water. Dragging him and his heavy pack all the way.. “I told you to get into the section which wasn’t so fast moving” I angrily reaffirmed – totally terrified – then marched off into the shrub leaving him to contemplate. I wasn’t going to leave him here like this – icy cold desolate river.. I needed him.

It was only Day 6…

(Sorry guys I haven't been posting or commenting.. I've been drunk and having way to much fun. Anyway I hope you haven't given up on me yet. Talk soon)