We’d done it as kids. On family holidays to Wilson’s Promontory, we’d go for bushwalks. Sometimes the whole family. Mostly just my father, brother and I. To anyone else, these would be a nice day out. To us, though, they were great feats of endurance. The whole holiday was defined by these epic adventures. The anticipation built in the days leading up and was succeeded by days of recovery as we struggled against a tidal wave of lactic acid. It was something we enjoyed. As adults, though, it had never occurred to us to go bushwalking. Until this year.
We’d done it as kids. On family holidays to Wilson’s Promontory, we’d go for bushwalks. Sometimes the whole family. Mostly just my father, brother and I. To anyone else, these would be a nice day out. To us, though, they were great feats of endurance. The whole holiday was defined by these epic adventures. The anticipation built in the days leading up and was succeeded by days of recovery as we struggled against a tidal wave of lactic acid. It was something we enjoyed. As adults, though, it had never occurred to us to go bushwalking. Until this year.
Things are different now. Our father is older and it’s been a long, long time, since I’ve spend time in a Jayco. We have wives, responsibilities and are always crying time poor. Inevitably, we don’t talk as much as we did when we shared a room. Most changes are for the better – for starters, I no longer own a pair of shorts with white piping and a slit up the side of the leg. And my shoes are no longer held together by Velcro. Instead, I have hiking boots – footwear I bought years ago with the best of intentions but have rarely used.
For the last three years, we’ve been heading to Merimbula over the New Year. This year, I was determined that my brother and I would go for a bushwalk. Naturally, I over-prepared. If I’m being honest, I looked less like a bushwalker and more like a survivalist; the kind that screams about the end of days before digging a hole in the ground and eating handfuls of dirt. Wide-brimmed hat, backpack, enough sunscreen to turn me into an albino, water, snacks, compass, a sandwich and camera – I was ready. My brother, on the other hand, turned up with a cup. It was, he explained, so that he could stay hydrated. He planned to do so by either drinking from wild streams or his own urine. He didn’t say which he preferred.
Nine kilometers sounded reasonable enough. Not too ambitious, but something that was worthy of having a backpack. Unfortunately, it was one of those bushwalks that ends somewhere other than where it starts, so we needed to get both dropped off and picked up. My wife volunteered and I asked her to slow down to around forty kilometers per hour as we approached the drop zone. As it turned out, the drop off point was a lot further away than I realized. South past Eden, then along a gravel road. It was isolated; the kind of place that has no mobile reception and where the appearance of, say, flesh-eating zombies would come as no real surprise. It was here that we were deposited.
The drop off point was a small campsite. There were about twenty tents, no electricity and a giant goanna lurking in the car park. I turned to see my brother, his survival cup already at his lips. We hadn’t seen any wild streams yet so I could only assume that he was drinking something else. When he’d said that he was prepared to drink his own urine, I’d assumed this was something that’d occur in an emergency and not before we left the car park. Serves me right for making assumptions.
We headed off. Me in my wide-brimmed hat, my entire body dipped in sunscreen, carrying a backpack and wearing the kind of hiking boots that are, in effect, the footwear version of a four wheel drive; my brother wearing a flat cap, shorts and sneakers, looking as though he’s on the way to a barbecue. Had it all gone wrong and we’d ended up falling into a mud-pit with our fossils discovered by a future generation of geologists, they’d no doubt be puzzled as to why the guy dressed in neat-casual was hanging out with the survivalist.
I’d forgotten how competitive I was. As a kid, I always wanted to beat the recommended walking time. As if I were not trying to soak in the wonders of the natural world but competing in some kind of time trial. If they said four hours, I wanted to get it done in three. With the benefit of experience, I found that absolutely nothing had changed. I was still keen to make good time. My brother was surprised when I suggested that we jog the first leg.
We walked and, more importantly, talked the whole time. It made me wonder why it is that we’d waited so long to do something we both enjoyed so much. The track led us along the coast and past rock pools. We had lunch in a small, horseshoe bay. We spotted more goannas, some pink heath and came across all manner of beauty. And then we reached the pick-up point. There we found a beach with the bluest water I think I’ve ever seen. Naturally, we went for a swim. As I paddled backwards in the cool, clear water, I began to wish that I’d taken the backpack off first.
I don’t know where the photos of those early walks are. Probably somewhere at my father’s house. I think I took those bushwalks for granted. Not any more. I’ll make sure I make time for another trek. It’ll do me good. Instead of packing away the boots, hat and backpack for goodness knows how long, I’ll keep them within easy reach. I’ll be ready.