australia – in Creative Wilderness

I’m not exactly a spontaneous person. In fact, if a friend calls me and says “wanna go out tonight?” I have to say no because I have not had a significant amount of time to mentally prepare myself. So when my friend mentioned walking Mt Kosciuszko recently, I think I shocked us both when I said “let’s do it!” Granted, it took me a few days to plan, but the casual reference to Australia’s tallest mountain became a fully prepared itinerary – flights, trains, car and all.

Fast forward (I won’t bore you will details of my BO filled train ride and my 45 minute flight that felt like a long-haul) and it’s ‘the day of.’ At 6.30am, my friend Rach and I rugged up in 15 layers to defend us against the brittle 3 degree Canberra weather, and we hit the road with a brief but necessary stop at McDonalds to fill up on pancakes and coffee.

We arrived at Charlottes Pass (because we’re hard core and prefer to take the LONG route) and stuffed as many muesli bars and sandwiches in our backpacks. I think at some point along the way we had to remind ourselves that we were not about to embark on an extreme overland multi-day trek, but a 4-5 hour 18km round trip. Quite sadly, we had to leave our torch and hunting knife in the car and wind down our overly excited imaginations.

We set off on our adventure on a beautiful blue sky day with not another soul in sight. All we had was ourselves and the sound of gravel crunching under our feet. I think I made it half a kilometre before having to strip off my gloves and two additional layers until it was just me in a singlet. Luckily we didn’t wear our ski jackets like we originally considered. We obviously aren’t veteran hikers.

The silence was quite staggering. A few times we stopped in our tracks just to listen. There was no breeze, no birds, just the distant trickle of the Snowy River that passed through the valley to our right. We had the entire open space to ourselves and the odd person we could see as a speck in the distance. Before reaching the summit, Rach and I had solved the world’s problems, figured out our survival plan if an apocalypse was to occur and who knows what else.

When we reached the summit, 30 other people suddenly seemed to appear (arriving from a different direction) and we unfortunately had to share the space. Obviously the local Council didn’t get my request to have the mountain to ourselves… We again took a million pictures, then took pictures for other people, then climbed over rocks, walked in circles, ate our packed lunch, watched as two guys cracked beers they pulled from their backpack in celebration, and then turned around for the 9km walk back.

We managed to get back to our motel on shaking legs, with dry lips, burnt skin and the need for a shower. We were pretty proud of ourselves. But first, rest.

The very beginning…

Wide open spaces

Teeny tiny Snowy River

My favourite (plus a filter to make it extra awesome)

The crowd at the top of Australia

The view from the top

Hmm bit chilly?

The journey back begins

Saturday 28 Feb. I am running around my house wondering why everything is taking so long. Why didn’t I paint my nails yesterday when I was a sloth on the lounge? A faint wave of nausea rolls over me and I know I am stressing myself out (I used to throw up after every birthday party as a kid). I breathe, shove 15 random items of clothing in my bag and speed off to my friend’s place where we will begin our journey to Sydney.

After 2 hours of singing at the top of our lungs, we reach our dive of a hotel in Parramatta and I realise I am starving. It’s lunch time. We have to leave soon. So I eat 2 minute noodles cooked precariously in a hotel coffee mug, slap on some makeup and then we’re outside in the boiling summer sun.

Once we had battled the trains (seriously, how were we meant to get to Olympic Park if it isn’t mentioned on the schedule?), we arrived at our destination along with 50,000 other makeup-clad, spiked-haired, pierced and generally delightful people.

The afternoon melted into one length of time where our feet rarely stopped moving, our muscles cramped, we shouted, sang, and soothed our throats with too much vodka and Redbull. In what felt like quick succession, we were pondering how Faith No More could still be so cool, even when they’re 100 years old, dressed all in white and performing on a stage covered in flowers like a funeral parlour; then next minute we were merrily enjoying a train ride home along with hundreds of other exhausted festival-goers.

At this point in time, I could happily call it quits and go home.

And then day 2 started. I was dreading it internally. How were my poor shaking legs going to handle another 8 hours of standing? We drive to the venue this time and park out in the open and quickly realise it is a million degrees outside. I start to feel sick. Turns out my potato-on-a-stick and a dagwood dog from the day before wasn’t a wholesome meal.

Not long after we go inside and find a relatively clear space to watch Fear Factory, it starts to rain. Not the soft, drizzling rain, but large fat, COLD, rain. It starts to pour and we are running for shelter along with everyone else, leaving the band behind to perform to an empty space. From that point on my shoes squelch with every step, my shorts don’t seem to dry and I am freezing. What better way to fix the situation than to eat another potato-on-a-stick? Maybe I’ll have a pie too.

At the end of the night, when the final song was played and the lights came on, I squinted around at the crowd as they started to dazedly meander towards the door. My legs were locked in place and my muscles once again screamed in protest. Like a herd of sheep, we shuffled out, heads down and tired, and I realised that maybe I am getting too old for this.