The Outback Chronicles
CHAPTERS
Why I'm Walking (or Learning to be Committed)
Coffee Breakthrough
Scared with Fist
Phenomenality
How to Swallow a Fly
Meeting B
Successfully Lost in Twilight
Camp of the Sexes
Stands with Stick
A Girl Named Song
Dirty Mirage
Addiction + True Strength
Code Red (a bloody tale)
Cartoon Afternoon
Taking a Stand
When It's Tender
Coffee Breakthrough
Scared with Fist
Phenomenality
How to Swallow a Fly
Meeting B
Successfully Lost in Twilight
Camp of the Sexes
Stands with Stick
A Girl Named Song
Dirty Mirage
Addiction + True Strength
Code Red (a bloody tale)
Cartoon Afternoon
Taking a Stand
When It's Tender
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Why I'm Walking
The beginning of my Gibb River walk in the Kimberley was magical. Birds invited me for early morning tea and the mid-afternoon sun seemed to only shed deeper meaning and shadows between the gorge walls.
Then, Athena got her sixth flat.
I lost my spoon (and relearned the joys of finger eating).
Got sprayed with cow diarrhea by a passing cattle truck- followed by a maniacal laughter and the full awareness of no shower for weeks to come.
The flies were multiplying by the minute.
Then one afternoon, it went from unbearably hot to brain-boiling.
I could no longer wear my typical (aka-my everyday-my only) pants and t-shirt, the only comfortable thing to wear was my cotton dress. It allows a little breeze and when no one is around, no passing vehicle or cattle herder, I lift it up to my chest, tuck it in my overly tight sports bra, creating an air conditioner utilizing the wind and the cascade of sweat dripping down my torso.
In desperation to avoid bbq'd skin, I managed to make a decent shade structure, with some rope, a dress, a broken umbrella and a few bungee cords. McGyver had more than a fashionable mullet to inspire.
While on the Gibb River, I was reading a book about the Kimberley people, particularly the tribes of the Worora people and wanted to walk some of the stretches they had lived and walked before. It was not an affectionate desire, the tribes in the North were known for cannibalism and laws that allowed a man to spear his wife if she could no longer give him children. A harsh landscape reflected a harsh lifestyle.
What became interesting to me is that the coastal tribes that had an abundance of fish, fresh water and shade, didn't express a humble happiness that the central Australian tribes seemed to emulate.
The isolation and long journeys in the desert forced them to thrive on the little they had. They drank less water and yet seemed to have more organized parties and dancing. The tribes along the Western Coast imparted cruel punishments and vengeful tactics. But this is found throughout human history. Different morals and values. And most often, no matter the degree of violence inflicted on warring tribes, the community itself is caring and they look after one another.
That is until you become a barren female in the Worora tribe.
Their homeland is where I was headed. I changed my finishing route in Australia, from the lush city of Darwin, to the Aboriginal village of Kalumburu.
Walking the world means there are a lot of places that I will miss out on seeing, like cultural landmarks, museums, and all things touristy. Admittedly, no matter how ancient or historic a place is, if there's a tourist bus outside, I will bee-line it in the opposite direction.
When I see images of friends eating gelato outside the Sistine Chapel or a yoga retreat in Bali, I am reminded that my way of travel is so vastly different. When people are getting coffee in a Monaco cafe, I'm the dirt-smeared homeless woman, complete with overflowing buggy, that confuses people as to whether or not they should offer me their half-eaten croissant.
I've been presumed a refugee; a bag lady (which, after picking things up off the side of the road, I inevitably have to own that one); a spiritual pilgrim; and a trash collector. Ok, I can own that one too. I carry all my own trash until I can throw it away. Because after all, there is no "away". The least I can do is leave only a trace of foot prints.
This journey is about how I walk, and where the walk takes me.
I am in it for the love of adventure and exploration, both of physical landscapes and of the heart.
I am in it for the challenges I will face that will strengthen my character.
I walk as a free woman who could choose crazy-experiment over secure-job in a world where many women still can't choose their husband or education. I walk with them in my thoughts. And the little that people give me, I give to them. I can still eat a bruised croissant if I have to.
I walk because riding a bike is still too fast. And I'm clumsy. I once sprained my ankle running in place.
A passer-by in a car once said, "It's a lot easier to drive."
Easy would be at home in air conditioning, my butt glued to the lounge with a book and waiting for the pizza to turn a perfect golden brown.
I chose to walk because it felt right for me. I knew full well "easy" wasnt included in the itinerary.
I walk into a web of the unknown and slowly watch the world around me shape itself into being.
I can no longer walk past a grasshopper without admiring its genius construct or the cacophony of bird calls in my immediate surrounding.
To walk the earth, for me, is to practice being deeply connected to the subtlety of every moment and how it changes and forms itself.
This walk is like a marriage. When things get tough I'm not going to quit or choose something more comfortable and beautiful.
I may reach the end of my walk and still wonder what this walk is about.
COFFEE BREAKTHROUGH
It's still dark when I wake in my tent. In my first breath, I detect nuances in the air that are different from the place I slept the night before. I can feel life coming into expression as the crows begin a cacophony. The stillness in the movement of my surroundings is something I've begun to feel in my body, as if there was a faucet being slowly turned on.
There is never true silence. Nature is always moving, shaping and sharing its Self.
I feel thoughts beginning to form. And when my body asks for water the reality of a day full of non-stop walking hits me and is immediately depressing. There's a few seconds where I think I could just curl up and stay in my tent. The hunger for breakfast wins every time and the quickening heat turns my hobbit home into a furnace.
Coffee, the initiator of my first meltdown and yet always a saving grace in distressing times. Being a latte addict, I made the decision not to bring coffee with me. I thought I’d use the fresh air of the wilderness to relieve me of my mouth-watering craze for black liquid-fuel.
So, on my first day leaving Perth I bought two hot coffees. Locals had warned me that there was no roadhouse for 200 kilometers, about a six-day walk for me.
I was going to use all the drug induced help I could get. I was nervous and heading into the arid desert of the Outback. I would take the risk of diarrhea from over caffeination on an empty stomach. I couldn’t start my first continent without my morning ritual.
I ordered one in a regular paper cup and the other in my insulated canteen, which had it's own special cup holder. Very proud of that cup holder, I had a friend sow it together to fit my miniature bottle.
In an anxious hurry, I clipped the bottle carrier to the side of my cart. I sipped my paper cup coffee not taking in the delight of the moment because I was thinking about how cold the coffee had become and how wonderful to have a container that will give me a warm afternoon high for the rest of my walk.
After a few kilometers I was ready for a stretch and a sip of my piping hot latte. Insulated canteens, brilliant.
I walked towards the side of my cart (pretty sure I had a child-like grin of anticipating satisfaction) to see an empty cup holder. No canteen bottle. No steaming liquid ready to massage my throat and fuel my tired bones. No brown-fluid-drug-of-choice smiling with equal pleasure and fulfillment to be consumed.
Paralysis set in. I stood there, with my legs crying for some space to breathe and rest, my mouth hung open and my eyebrows slowly moved into a furrow or sorrow. I was petrified and lost in disbelief. I just stared at it with my mouth hanging open and my mind on pause.
The phenomenon of this moment is that this is when reality set in.
This is when I realized; I'm walking around THE world. What the fuck was I thinking?
Still standing, I could feel the shake of my belly from my pelvis as it slithered, oh-so-slowly, upwards heading towards my chest and throat. My shoulders started gyrating as they attempted to keep my insides from bursting out and spilling onto the concrete. For a moment I entertained the notion that my love for coffee could actually kill me. I gripped my fingers into my belly to support the efforts of my upper body.
I’ve learned over the years that trying to hold something in doesn’t last long and usually has to come out at some point. This point took only another four seconds before I buckled to the ground.
I already had a few weeps under my belt. I had cried as my friend Shireen sang Unchained Melody while saying goodbye to my friends in Oregon. And when I made love for the last time to my boyfriend. When my feet ached and I couldn't walk anymore. When I waved goodbye at the airport, when I boarded the plane, when the plane landed, when I was packing and……..
Well, probably at least once every day since I've started.
There is a routine of an emotional journey that goes a bit like this: sadness then grief then humility then contentment then delirious laughter. Determination makes a presence and invites wonder and joy along. I begin feeling the perfection of the moment and aliveness moving within and around me. A pep in my step moves me forward and everything feels beautiful. And then it starts all over.
Paralysis moved into convulsions. I noticed a deep breath, mainly because the sobs were so violent that I wasn't breathing. In the midst of being on all fours on the side of a road with passing cars, I crawled behind a tree and continued to let me body purge all that I hadn't felt or allowed myself to feel. The body memory was as if I was regurgitating from a stomach flu.
As I consciously let the emotions stream through my exhausted muscles I could feel a moment of rightness, how right it felt to be here, somewhere between Perth and Woodridge on Route 60, sobbing through the enormity of this challenge.
Who was I to take on four continents alone?
Why did I leave behind a man I loved to go trekking through monsoon mountains and burning landscapes?
The breaths became deeper and longer. The snot from my nose had run it's course and the tension had slipped off like a silky nightgown. It started to rain.
I sat back and let my face revel in the sprinkles from the heavens. Slowly, a smile grew from one dimple to the other.
Who was I?
A question that stays wrapped in a veil of mystery for a lifetime.
Sitting there between a tree and traffic, I didn’t feel brave or fearless.
I felt stupid and afraid.
But I did know, that I was determined to follow my heart, even if my destiny asked me to risk losing all I loved.
Besides a gallon of water and some dehydrated food, all I had was faith.
An inner mantra began; you got this.
I had a sip of clear water (yet still consciously wishing it were the brown good stuff), stood up, and continued walking through an Australian afternoon downpour.
An hour later, a woman named Margaret-Ann driving home after work, offered me a hot shower and a place to stay for the night.
Seven Kilometers after my coffee-initiated meltdown, I was sipping Champagne in a hot bubbly bath. I gave a nod to the heavens as if to say thank you.
Each day is so vastly different. Each day carries a little miracle and a gift waiting to be received.
The next morning as I readied to leave, Margaret-Ann packed me a new canteen filled with piping hot coffee.
There is never true silence. Nature is always moving, shaping and sharing its Self.
I feel thoughts beginning to form. And when my body asks for water the reality of a day full of non-stop walking hits me and is immediately depressing. There's a few seconds where I think I could just curl up and stay in my tent. The hunger for breakfast wins every time and the quickening heat turns my hobbit home into a furnace.
Coffee, the initiator of my first meltdown and yet always a saving grace in distressing times. Being a latte addict, I made the decision not to bring coffee with me. I thought I’d use the fresh air of the wilderness to relieve me of my mouth-watering craze for black liquid-fuel.
So, on my first day leaving Perth I bought two hot coffees. Locals had warned me that there was no roadhouse for 200 kilometers, about a six-day walk for me.
I was going to use all the drug induced help I could get. I was nervous and heading into the arid desert of the Outback. I would take the risk of diarrhea from over caffeination on an empty stomach. I couldn’t start my first continent without my morning ritual.
I ordered one in a regular paper cup and the other in my insulated canteen, which had it's own special cup holder. Very proud of that cup holder, I had a friend sow it together to fit my miniature bottle.
In an anxious hurry, I clipped the bottle carrier to the side of my cart. I sipped my paper cup coffee not taking in the delight of the moment because I was thinking about how cold the coffee had become and how wonderful to have a container that will give me a warm afternoon high for the rest of my walk.
After a few kilometers I was ready for a stretch and a sip of my piping hot latte. Insulated canteens, brilliant.
I walked towards the side of my cart (pretty sure I had a child-like grin of anticipating satisfaction) to see an empty cup holder. No canteen bottle. No steaming liquid ready to massage my throat and fuel my tired bones. No brown-fluid-drug-of-choice smiling with equal pleasure and fulfillment to be consumed.
Paralysis set in. I stood there, with my legs crying for some space to breathe and rest, my mouth hung open and my eyebrows slowly moved into a furrow or sorrow. I was petrified and lost in disbelief. I just stared at it with my mouth hanging open and my mind on pause.
The phenomenon of this moment is that this is when reality set in.
This is when I realized; I'm walking around THE world. What the fuck was I thinking?
Still standing, I could feel the shake of my belly from my pelvis as it slithered, oh-so-slowly, upwards heading towards my chest and throat. My shoulders started gyrating as they attempted to keep my insides from bursting out and spilling onto the concrete. For a moment I entertained the notion that my love for coffee could actually kill me. I gripped my fingers into my belly to support the efforts of my upper body.
I’ve learned over the years that trying to hold something in doesn’t last long and usually has to come out at some point. This point took only another four seconds before I buckled to the ground.
I already had a few weeps under my belt. I had cried as my friend Shireen sang Unchained Melody while saying goodbye to my friends in Oregon. And when I made love for the last time to my boyfriend. When my feet ached and I couldn't walk anymore. When I waved goodbye at the airport, when I boarded the plane, when the plane landed, when I was packing and……..
Well, probably at least once every day since I've started.
There is a routine of an emotional journey that goes a bit like this: sadness then grief then humility then contentment then delirious laughter. Determination makes a presence and invites wonder and joy along. I begin feeling the perfection of the moment and aliveness moving within and around me. A pep in my step moves me forward and everything feels beautiful. And then it starts all over.
Paralysis moved into convulsions. I noticed a deep breath, mainly because the sobs were so violent that I wasn't breathing. In the midst of being on all fours on the side of a road with passing cars, I crawled behind a tree and continued to let me body purge all that I hadn't felt or allowed myself to feel. The body memory was as if I was regurgitating from a stomach flu.
As I consciously let the emotions stream through my exhausted muscles I could feel a moment of rightness, how right it felt to be here, somewhere between Perth and Woodridge on Route 60, sobbing through the enormity of this challenge.
Who was I to take on four continents alone?
Why did I leave behind a man I loved to go trekking through monsoon mountains and burning landscapes?
The breaths became deeper and longer. The snot from my nose had run it's course and the tension had slipped off like a silky nightgown. It started to rain.
I sat back and let my face revel in the sprinkles from the heavens. Slowly, a smile grew from one dimple to the other.
Who was I?
A question that stays wrapped in a veil of mystery for a lifetime.
Sitting there between a tree and traffic, I didn’t feel brave or fearless.
I felt stupid and afraid.
But I did know, that I was determined to follow my heart, even if my destiny asked me to risk losing all I loved.
Besides a gallon of water and some dehydrated food, all I had was faith.
An inner mantra began; you got this.
I had a sip of clear water (yet still consciously wishing it were the brown good stuff), stood up, and continued walking through an Australian afternoon downpour.
An hour later, a woman named Margaret-Ann driving home after work, offered me a hot shower and a place to stay for the night.
Seven Kilometers after my coffee-initiated meltdown, I was sipping Champagne in a hot bubbly bath. I gave a nod to the heavens as if to say thank you.
Each day is so vastly different. Each day carries a little miracle and a gift waiting to be received.
The next morning as I readied to leave, Margaret-Ann packed me a new canteen filled with piping hot coffee.
SCARED WITH FIST
It was a National Park and camping was prohibited. The sun would set within fifteen minutes and there was nowhere close by to pitch my tent.
I spotted a picnic table nestled behind a few trees. If I was going to sleep here illegally I at least wanted to make it easy to pack up and leave.
Lots of visitors were arriving for sunset hours to see the Turquoise Coast. Their presence made me feel comfortable and safe. But they all left as quickly as they came.
I set my air mattress and sleeping bag on top of the bench, placed my walking stick at reachable length and fell asleep to a cricket lullaby.
I heard a motor approaching and was happy to see a caravan in the lot about 200 feet from me. Although it wasn’t an overnight park, being Western Australia Day weekend and migrators heading North for the winter, I welcomed their presence. Only a week walking in Australia and I was still scared of things that go bump in the night.
Besides, we were now illegal camping cohorts.
Thumping of bass, loud voices, and a bottle being thrashed on the concrete woke me abruptly. Two cars full of young kids filled the parking lot. I looked for my caravan buddy and couldn’t see anything under the dark of a new moon.
I heard the shouts of a teenage couple fighting. I was still in a nervous phase so I pulled the hood of my sleeping bag over my face and sunk into a fetus position.
The noise was moving closer and voices of two men were approaching the vicinity of my tent.
Even if they were harmless I had to break out of my frozen shell.
I quickly fumbled in my pouch for my knife. I jumped on all fours like a feral cat ready to pounce. I flipped the blade open and tried putting on my Clint Eastwood face to silently insinuate, don’t even think about it.
Then a bright light came on in the parking lot. The Caravan owners were still there, now awake and perturbed. My body relaxed when I knew I wasn’t alone but kept the knife ready just in case.
The two gentlemen turned back to the cars without ever noticing me and shortly after a few wheelies in the parking lot, drove away.
The Caravan left their light on all night. It was like my North Star, when I woke to see their light I knew I wasn’t alone.
There was no real danger this night but I felt lucky that the first time I pulled my knife out I didn’t have to use it.
I spotted a picnic table nestled behind a few trees. If I was going to sleep here illegally I at least wanted to make it easy to pack up and leave.
Lots of visitors were arriving for sunset hours to see the Turquoise Coast. Their presence made me feel comfortable and safe. But they all left as quickly as they came.
I set my air mattress and sleeping bag on top of the bench, placed my walking stick at reachable length and fell asleep to a cricket lullaby.
I heard a motor approaching and was happy to see a caravan in the lot about 200 feet from me. Although it wasn’t an overnight park, being Western Australia Day weekend and migrators heading North for the winter, I welcomed their presence. Only a week walking in Australia and I was still scared of things that go bump in the night.
Besides, we were now illegal camping cohorts.
Thumping of bass, loud voices, and a bottle being thrashed on the concrete woke me abruptly. Two cars full of young kids filled the parking lot. I looked for my caravan buddy and couldn’t see anything under the dark of a new moon.
I heard the shouts of a teenage couple fighting. I was still in a nervous phase so I pulled the hood of my sleeping bag over my face and sunk into a fetus position.
The noise was moving closer and voices of two men were approaching the vicinity of my tent.
Even if they were harmless I had to break out of my frozen shell.
I quickly fumbled in my pouch for my knife. I jumped on all fours like a feral cat ready to pounce. I flipped the blade open and tried putting on my Clint Eastwood face to silently insinuate, don’t even think about it.
Then a bright light came on in the parking lot. The Caravan owners were still there, now awake and perturbed. My body relaxed when I knew I wasn’t alone but kept the knife ready just in case.
The two gentlemen turned back to the cars without ever noticing me and shortly after a few wheelies in the parking lot, drove away.
The Caravan left their light on all night. It was like my North Star, when I woke to see their light I knew I wasn’t alone.
There was no real danger this night but I felt lucky that the first time I pulled my knife out I didn’t have to use it.
PHENOMENALITY
George only had a few teeth left in his mouth but he had the brightest eyes and disposition. He saw me making my typical two-minute noodles and offered me half his soup, a recipe his mother made of rice, egg and lemons. He was 86 years old, born in Greece and had traveled the world settling in Jurien Bay. I shared a meal with him as he told me his story as a woodworking adventurer. He lived and worked anywhere he could get a job as a carpenter. George was now grounds maintenance for a caravan park.
As I was heading to my tent he asked if I was hitching or riding a bike up North. I marched my feet as a reply. His jaw dropped and I could see the porridge on his tongue as he said, “You’re phenomenal!”
“Well, I might feel like that later but right now I’m just sore.”
I had mastered the art of deflecting compliments. He stood up out of his chair, pointed his finger at me, and with a mouth still full of his mother’s porridge sternly said “No! Not tomorrow, not some day, not when you’ve finished walking, RIGHT NOW, YOU’RE PHENOMENAL!”
A man yelling kind words at me with food spilling from the corners of his mouth demanded a warm smile and an open ear.
I stood in recognition that he spoke from a place within myself. Who doesn’t want to feel phenomenal?
I was just hoping for strong, committed, even crazy would do. And I’ve had plenty of “crazy” compliments along the way.
I stood smiling at George, with the porridge seeping out from the gaps between his teeth, as he smiled and waved me off to bed.
I nodded and said “You’re right, George. WE’RE PHENOMENAL.”
As I was heading to my tent he asked if I was hitching or riding a bike up North. I marched my feet as a reply. His jaw dropped and I could see the porridge on his tongue as he said, “You’re phenomenal!”
“Well, I might feel like that later but right now I’m just sore.”
I had mastered the art of deflecting compliments. He stood up out of his chair, pointed his finger at me, and with a mouth still full of his mother’s porridge sternly said “No! Not tomorrow, not some day, not when you’ve finished walking, RIGHT NOW, YOU’RE PHENOMENAL!”
A man yelling kind words at me with food spilling from the corners of his mouth demanded a warm smile and an open ear.
I stood in recognition that he spoke from a place within myself. Who doesn’t want to feel phenomenal?
I was just hoping for strong, committed, even crazy would do. And I’ve had plenty of “crazy” compliments along the way.
I stood smiling at George, with the porridge seeping out from the gaps between his teeth, as he smiled and waved me off to bed.
I nodded and said “You’re right, George. WE’RE PHENOMENAL.”
HOW TO SWALLOW A FLY
It’s bound to happen. Flies fill the air like atom particles.
Margaret-Ann, originally from the Isle of Skye in Scotland, had offered me a place to stay for the night in Woodridge, just north of Yanchep. Her husband was Australian and they had just moved there from Scotland four years ago. She loved learning the local wildlife and native plants. She took me around her garden and gave me the official and slang names for all her plants. She had several chickens, which loved to be cuddled and two resident Kangaroos named Jack and Jill. Jack had grown up with Margaret-Ann and would often feed from her hand.
As we sipped coffee and looked into her garden she would also tell me the types of birds that frequented her house. I only remember one and that’s because it has kept me company on my walk.
The Willy Wagtail, a smallish bird, with hints of blue and a white belly that constantly wags its tail. They have a pleasant little chirp that I listen for daily. One particular Willy will usually join me for about a kilometer each day somewhere on my walk. In a flirtatious manner, it will wait for me to meet up with it while resting on a bush, chirp at me, then fly several feet ahead and wait till I meet up with it before flying ahead again.
I like to think they were being personally playful with me.
They sang a tune for me and I would sing one back.
One afternoon, with no one around, I felt free to really let it loose. With my jaw opened wide, leading into my crescendo… a fly goes straight into the back of my throat, as if it was waiting in the wind for a perfectly timed suicide. I leaned over and viciously attempted to cough it out. It was too late. It was down the esophagus and heading for digestion.
I peered over at Willy, he looked straight at me, tail wagging, and I had a feeling he had offered me dinner, his style.
“Thanks Willy, but next time would you mind asking first if I like Flies.?"
Margaret-Ann, originally from the Isle of Skye in Scotland, had offered me a place to stay for the night in Woodridge, just north of Yanchep. Her husband was Australian and they had just moved there from Scotland four years ago. She loved learning the local wildlife and native plants. She took me around her garden and gave me the official and slang names for all her plants. She had several chickens, which loved to be cuddled and two resident Kangaroos named Jack and Jill. Jack had grown up with Margaret-Ann and would often feed from her hand.
As we sipped coffee and looked into her garden she would also tell me the types of birds that frequented her house. I only remember one and that’s because it has kept me company on my walk.
The Willy Wagtail, a smallish bird, with hints of blue and a white belly that constantly wags its tail. They have a pleasant little chirp that I listen for daily. One particular Willy will usually join me for about a kilometer each day somewhere on my walk. In a flirtatious manner, it will wait for me to meet up with it while resting on a bush, chirp at me, then fly several feet ahead and wait till I meet up with it before flying ahead again.
I like to think they were being personally playful with me.
They sang a tune for me and I would sing one back.
One afternoon, with no one around, I felt free to really let it loose. With my jaw opened wide, leading into my crescendo… a fly goes straight into the back of my throat, as if it was waiting in the wind for a perfectly timed suicide. I leaned over and viciously attempted to cough it out. It was too late. It was down the esophagus and heading for digestion.
I peered over at Willy, he looked straight at me, tail wagging, and I had a feeling he had offered me dinner, his style.
“Thanks Willy, but next time would you mind asking first if I like Flies.?"
MEETING B
"If you're determined to get heat and sun stroke, do you mind not adding dehydration to it? It makes my job more difficult."
"I'm drinking plenty of water, thank you!" I reply with a little sass in my voice.
"Well, if you start seeing stars, you know the whistle. Then sit down in the shade and I'll be to you soon."
The day I met B I learned that when you think you're alone in the desert, you're probably not.
I had just put my headphones in and began singing along to a Cranberries song when I noticed two men walking out of the bush towards me. My heart leapt at the same time my hand leapt to my walking stick. They were both shirtless, barefoot and had a black dog in tow. They were most interested in Athena and my solar panel.
"Are you the woman walking?" one asked me with a friendly smile.
"Yes, well, I'm walking." I replied.
"I heard about you a little south of here. Was interested in your rig set up. Looks nice."
They both seemed genuinely kind and the dog, named Taz, nestled herself in the shade of Athena. They were both heading up North, one on a bike and the other in his car. They offered to share a camp for the night a few Kilometers up the road. I was definitely hesitant to agree to go off into the bush with two men that I've only spent ten minutes with but it felt safe and I began drooling at the thought of lamb chops and steamed veggies. We decided that they would choose the camp, set up and cook for us. That night I ate myself stuffed, drank red wine and slept next to the fire that B kept going throughout the night.
B travels by foot and bike. He carries very little with him and the only time I've seen him wear anything on his feet is when he's pedaling. He rolls and smokes a cigarette every twenty minutes and enjoys white wine with water once the fire is lit and the food is cooking. He stands several inches over 6 feet, his skin is dark and weathered perhaps making him look older than he is. He has many traits similar to the Aborigines like the wide nose and dark skin color but he could easily pass as a sunburnt German. He doesn't ask many questions and prefers not to be asked many.
B offered to show me a few things about the bush lifestyle before he continued to go north on his own. I know he could see how little I really knew about living on the road, my somewhat poor diet of yogurt bars and muesli. He kindly gave me two weeks of support and bush experience without busting my confidence bubble.
Once B found our camp for the night, he would place an orange flag under a stone on the ground to notify me of his location. I would give a whistle in three tones so he knew I was entering camp. He rarely chose a place that had a path or trail. I often had to pull Athena over dead trees, spinifex, sand and puddles.
The first night I arrived to camp I was a bit apprehensive about how we would work together. B had seen me coming and waited for me at the entrance of the trail, staying somewhat camouflaged behind a tree. He put his hand up as if to stop me. He pointed at his eyes with two fingers and then at the North and South, the direction the cars were passing in. He was trying to tell me to watch the cars and wait until there was no one on the road before entering camp.
Once silent from passing vehicles, I ran into the bush towards B. He grabbed Athena's handles from me and with wide and steady strides he pulled her quickly behind him as if she were no heavier than an empty wheelbarrow. I had to run to keep up as I attempted to push her from behind.
He had a fire lit and spaghetti noodles boiling.
"I've put up my tent for you so you can rest under the mesh to avoid the evening mozzies. I'll get dinner ready."
With gleaming joy that someone was going to take care of the necessities for the night, I cuddled into the tent for a sunset meditation.
He began heading back towards the road.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To cover our tracks. I'll show you that tomorrow. You rest for now."
This was the beginning of learning to move unseen.
"I'm drinking plenty of water, thank you!" I reply with a little sass in my voice.
"Well, if you start seeing stars, you know the whistle. Then sit down in the shade and I'll be to you soon."
The day I met B I learned that when you think you're alone in the desert, you're probably not.
I had just put my headphones in and began singing along to a Cranberries song when I noticed two men walking out of the bush towards me. My heart leapt at the same time my hand leapt to my walking stick. They were both shirtless, barefoot and had a black dog in tow. They were most interested in Athena and my solar panel.
"Are you the woman walking?" one asked me with a friendly smile.
"Yes, well, I'm walking." I replied.
"I heard about you a little south of here. Was interested in your rig set up. Looks nice."
They both seemed genuinely kind and the dog, named Taz, nestled herself in the shade of Athena. They were both heading up North, one on a bike and the other in his car. They offered to share a camp for the night a few Kilometers up the road. I was definitely hesitant to agree to go off into the bush with two men that I've only spent ten minutes with but it felt safe and I began drooling at the thought of lamb chops and steamed veggies. We decided that they would choose the camp, set up and cook for us. That night I ate myself stuffed, drank red wine and slept next to the fire that B kept going throughout the night.
B travels by foot and bike. He carries very little with him and the only time I've seen him wear anything on his feet is when he's pedaling. He rolls and smokes a cigarette every twenty minutes and enjoys white wine with water once the fire is lit and the food is cooking. He stands several inches over 6 feet, his skin is dark and weathered perhaps making him look older than he is. He has many traits similar to the Aborigines like the wide nose and dark skin color but he could easily pass as a sunburnt German. He doesn't ask many questions and prefers not to be asked many.
B offered to show me a few things about the bush lifestyle before he continued to go north on his own. I know he could see how little I really knew about living on the road, my somewhat poor diet of yogurt bars and muesli. He kindly gave me two weeks of support and bush experience without busting my confidence bubble.
Once B found our camp for the night, he would place an orange flag under a stone on the ground to notify me of his location. I would give a whistle in three tones so he knew I was entering camp. He rarely chose a place that had a path or trail. I often had to pull Athena over dead trees, spinifex, sand and puddles.
The first night I arrived to camp I was a bit apprehensive about how we would work together. B had seen me coming and waited for me at the entrance of the trail, staying somewhat camouflaged behind a tree. He put his hand up as if to stop me. He pointed at his eyes with two fingers and then at the North and South, the direction the cars were passing in. He was trying to tell me to watch the cars and wait until there was no one on the road before entering camp.
Once silent from passing vehicles, I ran into the bush towards B. He grabbed Athena's handles from me and with wide and steady strides he pulled her quickly behind him as if she were no heavier than an empty wheelbarrow. I had to run to keep up as I attempted to push her from behind.
He had a fire lit and spaghetti noodles boiling.
"I've put up my tent for you so you can rest under the mesh to avoid the evening mozzies. I'll get dinner ready."
With gleaming joy that someone was going to take care of the necessities for the night, I cuddled into the tent for a sunset meditation.
He began heading back towards the road.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To cover our tracks. I'll show you that tomorrow. You rest for now."
This was the beginning of learning to move unseen.
SUCCESSFULLY LOST IN TWILIGHT
It seemed as though our camps grew further from the road each night, dropping us deeper into the wild. He deliberately chose to take me through stages to make it more comfortable for me. Our last few days together we had gone as far away from cars and people as possible.
After racing the sunset to set up my tent, B invites me to see the landscape.
His hardened bare feet walk over branches and sharp stones that hurt my feet even in my rubber-soled shoes. He walks as surely as someone with steel-toed boots.
We bob and weave until we reach a large are of exposed red earth.
"Does this look like a good camping spot to you?" he asked pointing to the middle of the polished earth.
"Sure, my stakes would go easily into the ground and it's flat and smooth." I replied with a bit of confidence thinking I was relaying my knowledge of choosing a good home for the night.
He walked into the middle of the patch, pointed to a small hole the size of a tadpole and began thumping his foot next to the hole. He then walked back towards me as I watched thousands of ants pour out and head in our direction. He grabbed my hand and led us around the patch so we could watch them.
"We call these bull or meat ants. They will bite you and it’s extremely painful. You lay your tent on their home and they will bite through it to get inside to you."
He began walking again as I watched them scurry about with an air of angry defense. The hole was small with no signs of a typical anthill that I'm acquainted with.
“Don’t put your tent near them. Thump the ground first.”
He walks off again and I follow.
B stops at a gum tree and shares a bit of its uses and history.
The sun is no longer visible and the stars are waking up. B turns to me and says, "Now, take us back to camp."
My eyes got big as I realized I wasn't paying attention to our surroundings as much as I would have if I were alone. I explain this to him and he responds with raised brows and a sly smile. I then understand he had planned this.
B begins, "You must always pay attention to your surroundings no matter the company you're in. Twilight is the most dangerous time to get lost. Start by pointing in the direction you think we came from."
I feel pretty confident and point to the South East. We began walking. He stops me to look back so I can draw a line from where we came from and see if we're walking in the same direction I had pointed.
I hear a car pass and I knew we weren't too far from the road.
I keep walking in the direction I had set out on until we reach the highway.
I feel a bit defeated. I was sure I was walking straight to camp.
"Not bad. You could at least get help on the main road. But look to your right." B points over his shoulder and I squint through the trees making out a hint of orange. Athena is the only thing that gives away the campsite.
As we head back B finishes our evening romp, "Pull out your reflectors whenever you leave camp and place them as high in a tree as you can."
After racing the sunset to set up my tent, B invites me to see the landscape.
His hardened bare feet walk over branches and sharp stones that hurt my feet even in my rubber-soled shoes. He walks as surely as someone with steel-toed boots.
We bob and weave until we reach a large are of exposed red earth.
"Does this look like a good camping spot to you?" he asked pointing to the middle of the polished earth.
"Sure, my stakes would go easily into the ground and it's flat and smooth." I replied with a bit of confidence thinking I was relaying my knowledge of choosing a good home for the night.
He walked into the middle of the patch, pointed to a small hole the size of a tadpole and began thumping his foot next to the hole. He then walked back towards me as I watched thousands of ants pour out and head in our direction. He grabbed my hand and led us around the patch so we could watch them.
"We call these bull or meat ants. They will bite you and it’s extremely painful. You lay your tent on their home and they will bite through it to get inside to you."
He began walking again as I watched them scurry about with an air of angry defense. The hole was small with no signs of a typical anthill that I'm acquainted with.
“Don’t put your tent near them. Thump the ground first.”
He walks off again and I follow.
B stops at a gum tree and shares a bit of its uses and history.
The sun is no longer visible and the stars are waking up. B turns to me and says, "Now, take us back to camp."
My eyes got big as I realized I wasn't paying attention to our surroundings as much as I would have if I were alone. I explain this to him and he responds with raised brows and a sly smile. I then understand he had planned this.
B begins, "You must always pay attention to your surroundings no matter the company you're in. Twilight is the most dangerous time to get lost. Start by pointing in the direction you think we came from."
I feel pretty confident and point to the South East. We began walking. He stops me to look back so I can draw a line from where we came from and see if we're walking in the same direction I had pointed.
I hear a car pass and I knew we weren't too far from the road.
I keep walking in the direction I had set out on until we reach the highway.
I feel a bit defeated. I was sure I was walking straight to camp.
"Not bad. You could at least get help on the main road. But look to your right." B points over his shoulder and I squint through the trees making out a hint of orange. Athena is the only thing that gives away the campsite.
As we head back B finishes our evening romp, "Pull out your reflectors whenever you leave camp and place them as high in a tree as you can."
CAMP OF THE SEXES
B sets up his camp, which consists of a tarp, a mat and a sleeping bag.
He builds a fire, starts boiling water for dinner, sits down on the earth and rolls himself a cigarette. His is the men's camp.
I set up the women's camp.
Unpack Athena.
Put up the tent.
Inflate air mattress.
Unroll sleeping bag.
Change into leggings, wool socks and shirt.
Braid my hair.
Refill water bottles.
I pull out my foldable camping chair and place it next to the fire. I slowly collapse into it, nuzzling my bum till I find the right spot, take a deep sigh of relief then look over at B with a face that says, "Ok. I'm ready."
B simply smiles and stirs the pot of spaghetti noodles.
In the morning when B wakes he relights the fire, rolls a cigarette, and pours cold water and instant coffee into his plastic Cola bottle.
Then he sits and begins his fire gazing.
I wake up and immediately get to work.
I roll up the air mattress.
Pack up my sleeping bag and tent.
Refill water bottles.
Get dressed.
Eat a yogurt bar.
Heat water for my coffee.
And begin packing up Athena while brushing my teeth.
B just sits and sometimes watches me as I wriggle and writhe throughout the camp.
He never laughs or yells at me.
But when I leave to start walking for the day, I think it's possible he gets all his giggles out.
He builds a fire, starts boiling water for dinner, sits down on the earth and rolls himself a cigarette. His is the men's camp.
I set up the women's camp.
Unpack Athena.
Put up the tent.
Inflate air mattress.
Unroll sleeping bag.
Change into leggings, wool socks and shirt.
Braid my hair.
Refill water bottles.
I pull out my foldable camping chair and place it next to the fire. I slowly collapse into it, nuzzling my bum till I find the right spot, take a deep sigh of relief then look over at B with a face that says, "Ok. I'm ready."
B simply smiles and stirs the pot of spaghetti noodles.
In the morning when B wakes he relights the fire, rolls a cigarette, and pours cold water and instant coffee into his plastic Cola bottle.
Then he sits and begins his fire gazing.
I wake up and immediately get to work.
I roll up the air mattress.
Pack up my sleeping bag and tent.
Refill water bottles.
Get dressed.
Eat a yogurt bar.
Heat water for my coffee.
And begin packing up Athena while brushing my teeth.
B just sits and sometimes watches me as I wriggle and writhe throughout the camp.
He never laughs or yells at me.
But when I leave to start walking for the day, I think it's possible he gets all his giggles out.
STANDS WITH STICK
“Show me how you use your nulla nulla.” B stood up from the morning fire as I was getting ready to leave camp.
Already a bit defeated by my inability to get us back to camp the last thing I wanted to do was show my limited defense moves.
A Nulla Nulla is an Australian Aboriginal war club made of wood. I’ve heard an Aboriginal man say that most men know not to mess with a woman carrying a nulla nulla.
I reach for my stick, place it firmly in both hands across my body, bend my knees and ground into my image of Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, ready to pounce.
He just stares at me.
I keep my stance.
I wait.
My eyes look around me like there may be someone ready to attack me from behind, which would be a real skill since it’s just the two of us in the bush.
Confused, I ask him “Are you going to attack me or are you wanting to see my air moves?”
He folds his arms and continues to stare at me.
With an air of frustration building in me I drop the stick from one hand and firmly planted the base of it on the ground. My hand loosely gripped the wooden knob while my other hand rested on my hip.
“Ok.” He says and walks off.
Later that night, still holding a bit of anger about it, he tells me “How you use your nulla nulla is shown in the way you hold it and walk with it. The way someone picks up a gun will tell you if they’ve ever used one before. You must always wield your nulla nulla with confidence.”
In the two weeks we shared together I learned a lot about living in the bush. When we parted ways, B walked me to the road. He opened his arms for an embrace.
"I can't bare to watch you leave so I'm going to walk away now."
He turned and I stood there watching him disappear into the bush.
I placed my hand over my heart and bowed in his shadow.
Already a bit defeated by my inability to get us back to camp the last thing I wanted to do was show my limited defense moves.
A Nulla Nulla is an Australian Aboriginal war club made of wood. I’ve heard an Aboriginal man say that most men know not to mess with a woman carrying a nulla nulla.
I reach for my stick, place it firmly in both hands across my body, bend my knees and ground into my image of Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, ready to pounce.
He just stares at me.
I keep my stance.
I wait.
My eyes look around me like there may be someone ready to attack me from behind, which would be a real skill since it’s just the two of us in the bush.
Confused, I ask him “Are you going to attack me or are you wanting to see my air moves?”
He folds his arms and continues to stare at me.
With an air of frustration building in me I drop the stick from one hand and firmly planted the base of it on the ground. My hand loosely gripped the wooden knob while my other hand rested on my hip.
“Ok.” He says and walks off.
Later that night, still holding a bit of anger about it, he tells me “How you use your nulla nulla is shown in the way you hold it and walk with it. The way someone picks up a gun will tell you if they’ve ever used one before. You must always wield your nulla nulla with confidence.”
In the two weeks we shared together I learned a lot about living in the bush. When we parted ways, B walked me to the road. He opened his arms for an embrace.
"I can't bare to watch you leave so I'm going to walk away now."
He turned and I stood there watching him disappear into the bush.
I placed my hand over my heart and bowed in his shadow.
A GIRL NAMED SONG
"Alabama, Arkansas,
I do love my ma and pa
not the way that I do love you."
I gave her my rain pants but her jacket was cotton and her shoes were soaked.
I was pulling Athena with my head down and my eyes on the few feet ahead of me, avoiding the rain on my face.
She began singing and as I looked over at her she held her head upwards towards the sky catching the thick raindrops on her chilled face.
Without looking at me, she said, "Join me, Angela. You know this song. You be Jade and I'll be Alexander." Then she slowly peered over at me as a grin grew on her lips and leapt into the air with excitement at the prospect of a duet.
I sing in the shower and in deserted areas when I think no one is around. But B had already busted me the day we met and if I hadn't been singing we might have never crossed paths.
The wind upped it's force and the rain followed suit as I gripped harder on Athena's poles.
"Ok, lets start from the beginning."
We sang the Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zero's hit "Home". Bella would fill in the blanks when I forgot the lyrics and giggle at me when it was our third round of practicing and I still blanked on the same phrases.
Bella was the first Aussie Woman to walk with me. She walked a full day and camped with B and me for a night. Bella's mother lived close by and brought us a home-cooked Indian Curry, which was heavenly to my taste buds as I was starting to crave something other than B's spaghetti. We laid out on the tarp and collected constellations like seashells. I learned how to find the Southern Cross and identify Scorpio.
Bella left that morning but returned two more times for a joint walkabout with me.
It was the second visit that I discovered her love of singing and her hunger for exploring life. She had just graduated from a University in the U.S. and met me during her short return home for a family visit.
She memorized spoken word as easily as a favorite song and performed them both with guttural passion.
When we sat at the campfire I would watch her hands move and wiggle, as the energy pulsing through her body was vibrant and ached for a way to move through her. She would often have to stand, stretch and move about to assist in the aliveness of her dancing energy.
She worshipped the sun. She never missed a sunrise or sunset while walking with me. Her hunger for life infused me with a raw and youthful wonder.
She was like a swimmer poised on the diving board ready to jump off into a graceful exhibition into the unknown of tomorrow. Although I am walking a decent distance everyday, I haven't always been spontaneous or gone with the flow of situations so easily. I found her willingness to feel joy in the unknown refreshing and inspiring.
She was returning to South Carolina for a road trip across the U.S. We shared a mutual love for the South; with it's fried homemade cookin', bluegrass, banjo's and friendly waves to passing neighbors. Our mouths watered as we talked of corn bread and collard greens.
We continued singing as we approached one of the markers B had given me in his cryptic directions to find him. B had gone a day ahead of me as I waited in town for Bella to join me. I knew it was time for me to go on without B and get back into my solitude and rhythm. I asked for two days to learn the last bits I could from him and it landed on the same timeframe that Bella would be joining me.
The rain slowed enough for me to take another look at the directions B had given me:
Yellow sign.
60 Zig Zag.
Floodway.
T on side.
Right turn dirt road.
Grid of metal.
River mouth on right.
Water birds on left.
See Ocean.
Whistle. Meditate till I approach.
We were doing well as we were approaching the metal grid across the dirt road.
The dusty path was turning to sludge as our shoes were singing along with suction as they sank deeper with each step. We could see the ocean as we walked up the hill. We had reached the end of our instructions as the rain pummeled and challenged the volume of our voices. We began singing a new tune that consisted of two words. "We're meditating!"
We giggled at ourselves in our poorly poncho'd clothes as the rain persisted and we were more than ready to be taken to the safety of camp. With his characteristically calm stride, B walked out from behind a tree and waved us in his direction. He had brought an umbrella but we all knew it was useless at this point.
"The rain's about to get worse. We'll have a little break long enough for you to set up your tent. It will take about 15 minutes to walk to camp. Bella, try to walk in my footprints. Angela, you pull and I'll push Athena. Follow my tracks to lead you to camp. You ready?" He placed his hands on Athena's handlebars and we all began a fast-paced hike into the soft sand.
We weaved deep into the sand dunes till we reached a steep hill where B's tracks seemed to stop. B proceeded to give us the run down of what was about to happen. It entailed lifting 100 lb Athena off the ground and walking through the edge of the hill in the grasses in an attempt to leave no tracks behind. Already soaked and out of breath, I looked at Bella with an apologetic glance, "Sorry, you probably didn't know you were in for a weekend of survival training. He's not paranoid, he's trying to show me things that may help me in the future." I grabbed the front wheel while B and Bella took the back wheels. When we reached the well-hidden encampment I quickly got to the task of putting up the tent.
Bella and I squeezed into the tent with wet bodies and had lost our enthusiastic rendition of Singing in the Rain by the time we collapsed on the tent floor. But the lighthearted laughter returned as we attempted to change out of our skin-tight soaked clothes. We waited in the tent for the rain to cease, but it never did that night. We shared memorized poems and sang through the night till the suns light woke us. Bella jumped out of the tent and ran to the ocean for the rising sun.
The last time I saw her she had made a surprise visit before her flight to South Carolina. I was already a week and a half walk north of where she lived, which was a four and a half hour drive one-way for her. She brought me roasted vegetables she made and lamb chops from her mom. She also threw in my beloved cappuccino and a beanie she picked out to keep my head warm in the evenings.
There is depth of love and familiar connection that I know we will cultivate from distant continents while on our own great adventures.
Before she got back into her car I asked for a favor.
"Enjoy some corn bread and collard greens for me. We'll share this together when we meet again."
We began our duet of "Home" as I walked away and she drove off.
I do love my ma and pa
not the way that I do love you."
I gave her my rain pants but her jacket was cotton and her shoes were soaked.
I was pulling Athena with my head down and my eyes on the few feet ahead of me, avoiding the rain on my face.
She began singing and as I looked over at her she held her head upwards towards the sky catching the thick raindrops on her chilled face.
Without looking at me, she said, "Join me, Angela. You know this song. You be Jade and I'll be Alexander." Then she slowly peered over at me as a grin grew on her lips and leapt into the air with excitement at the prospect of a duet.
I sing in the shower and in deserted areas when I think no one is around. But B had already busted me the day we met and if I hadn't been singing we might have never crossed paths.
The wind upped it's force and the rain followed suit as I gripped harder on Athena's poles.
"Ok, lets start from the beginning."
We sang the Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zero's hit "Home". Bella would fill in the blanks when I forgot the lyrics and giggle at me when it was our third round of practicing and I still blanked on the same phrases.
Bella was the first Aussie Woman to walk with me. She walked a full day and camped with B and me for a night. Bella's mother lived close by and brought us a home-cooked Indian Curry, which was heavenly to my taste buds as I was starting to crave something other than B's spaghetti. We laid out on the tarp and collected constellations like seashells. I learned how to find the Southern Cross and identify Scorpio.
Bella left that morning but returned two more times for a joint walkabout with me.
It was the second visit that I discovered her love of singing and her hunger for exploring life. She had just graduated from a University in the U.S. and met me during her short return home for a family visit.
She memorized spoken word as easily as a favorite song and performed them both with guttural passion.
When we sat at the campfire I would watch her hands move and wiggle, as the energy pulsing through her body was vibrant and ached for a way to move through her. She would often have to stand, stretch and move about to assist in the aliveness of her dancing energy.
She worshipped the sun. She never missed a sunrise or sunset while walking with me. Her hunger for life infused me with a raw and youthful wonder.
She was like a swimmer poised on the diving board ready to jump off into a graceful exhibition into the unknown of tomorrow. Although I am walking a decent distance everyday, I haven't always been spontaneous or gone with the flow of situations so easily. I found her willingness to feel joy in the unknown refreshing and inspiring.
She was returning to South Carolina for a road trip across the U.S. We shared a mutual love for the South; with it's fried homemade cookin', bluegrass, banjo's and friendly waves to passing neighbors. Our mouths watered as we talked of corn bread and collard greens.
We continued singing as we approached one of the markers B had given me in his cryptic directions to find him. B had gone a day ahead of me as I waited in town for Bella to join me. I knew it was time for me to go on without B and get back into my solitude and rhythm. I asked for two days to learn the last bits I could from him and it landed on the same timeframe that Bella would be joining me.
The rain slowed enough for me to take another look at the directions B had given me:
Yellow sign.
60 Zig Zag.
Floodway.
T on side.
Right turn dirt road.
Grid of metal.
River mouth on right.
Water birds on left.
See Ocean.
Whistle. Meditate till I approach.
We were doing well as we were approaching the metal grid across the dirt road.
The dusty path was turning to sludge as our shoes were singing along with suction as they sank deeper with each step. We could see the ocean as we walked up the hill. We had reached the end of our instructions as the rain pummeled and challenged the volume of our voices. We began singing a new tune that consisted of two words. "We're meditating!"
We giggled at ourselves in our poorly poncho'd clothes as the rain persisted and we were more than ready to be taken to the safety of camp. With his characteristically calm stride, B walked out from behind a tree and waved us in his direction. He had brought an umbrella but we all knew it was useless at this point.
"The rain's about to get worse. We'll have a little break long enough for you to set up your tent. It will take about 15 minutes to walk to camp. Bella, try to walk in my footprints. Angela, you pull and I'll push Athena. Follow my tracks to lead you to camp. You ready?" He placed his hands on Athena's handlebars and we all began a fast-paced hike into the soft sand.
We weaved deep into the sand dunes till we reached a steep hill where B's tracks seemed to stop. B proceeded to give us the run down of what was about to happen. It entailed lifting 100 lb Athena off the ground and walking through the edge of the hill in the grasses in an attempt to leave no tracks behind. Already soaked and out of breath, I looked at Bella with an apologetic glance, "Sorry, you probably didn't know you were in for a weekend of survival training. He's not paranoid, he's trying to show me things that may help me in the future." I grabbed the front wheel while B and Bella took the back wheels. When we reached the well-hidden encampment I quickly got to the task of putting up the tent.
Bella and I squeezed into the tent with wet bodies and had lost our enthusiastic rendition of Singing in the Rain by the time we collapsed on the tent floor. But the lighthearted laughter returned as we attempted to change out of our skin-tight soaked clothes. We waited in the tent for the rain to cease, but it never did that night. We shared memorized poems and sang through the night till the suns light woke us. Bella jumped out of the tent and ran to the ocean for the rising sun.
The last time I saw her she had made a surprise visit before her flight to South Carolina. I was already a week and a half walk north of where she lived, which was a four and a half hour drive one-way for her. She brought me roasted vegetables she made and lamb chops from her mom. She also threw in my beloved cappuccino and a beanie she picked out to keep my head warm in the evenings.
There is depth of love and familiar connection that I know we will cultivate from distant continents while on our own great adventures.
Before she got back into her car I asked for a favor.
"Enjoy some corn bread and collard greens for me. We'll share this together when we meet again."
We began our duet of "Home" as I walked away and she drove off.
DIRTY MIRAGE
As I walk along this concrete road, it's not the heat but my heart that sees a mirage. A woman, the color of a tree trunk with hair white as snow and as chaotic as the wind, is waving me into the desert, inviting me into her world. A red earth born of rustic whispers and silent conversations, a culture that moves with the wind and dances with insects. She doesn't ask me to come with her, she shows me how.
Most drivers are encouraging with waves, honks, and flashing their headlights as they fly past the woman with the tangerine cart. I wave to every passing vehicle; I think it has become an automatic response to movement on the tarmac. I thoroughly enjoy the recognition that happens in a split second when we may or may not catch eyes but share a mutual acknowledgment of one another. A joy surges through my belly as I feel a kind of alliance between driver and walker with a mutual gratitude of travel.
And as soon as they're behind me I breathe in the momentary silence and release any tension my body may have accumulated with the closeness of a large metal body zooming past my slow tenuous body. A chiming shrike sings her song and carries my brain back down to my feet.
I smell the dirt that has crusted in my nose and the flies and I regain our battle for the little moisture left in my body.
The road that stretches for 5,305 kilometers (3,296 miles) slicing right through the backyard of the native nomads is surprisingly diverse. Each day has a different landscape though it is endless on the eyes and the place where sky meets earth holds shadows and secrets that enrapture me every sunrise and fall. I have walked 900 kilometers (560 miles) in Western Australia and it has built a home in my bones. I have slowly begun to understand why this ancient seabed is spiritually rich with aliveness. Solitude permeates every living creature and if I listen more deeply I can hear a song carried through the wind.
It's time for my afternoon toilet visit in the bush and as I tuck behind a place that seems like no human has been there for ages, I stagger between piles of fecal matter strewn with wet wipes, bottles of piss, beer cans and plastic fast food containers rusting next to a goat cemetery. It’s not a town and I’m still 70 Kilometers from a station. The serenity of this wild land quickly began looking like a scene from Mad Max, the filth of post-apocalypse.
A depressive sadness leans into me as I witness the abuse of this ancient landscape. An abuse that is rampant across the planet. As I squat pant-less between trash and bones I remember times when I have thought that my little paper cup or crumbled newspaper wouldn't make much of a difference if left behind. I pull up my pants, waving the flies away just enough to free myself from their ambush for a few seconds before returning to the black road.
When I began this walk, I vowed to leave as little trace behind me as possible. A shit in the bush renewed my commitment to recognize my impact and role to my immediate and ever-expanding environment.
The wind pushes against my face carrying my hat along with it. A car passes at 80 mph. Athena shakes and I think I can feel her shivers like sympathy pains. She looks as exhausted as I do, weathered from pushing towards the sun. I wait for the signal from my feet to regain my momentum.
My eyes have begun averting the cars that propel its passengers in air-conditioned movement towards a more desirable location for their holidays and keep my eyes between the shadows and spinifex. I sing with a desire that the dark-skinned ones will find me, that they'll hear my call and deem me worthy of a true walkabout in their land. One that doesn't exist between backyards, shopping centers, highways and quarries. A timeless yet harsh environment that only the skilled can survive and thrive in.
And so I keep walking, till she waves me in when the sun is three fingers width to setting. I leave Athena under a gum tree, strip off my clothes and head barefoot into the arms of the outback and it's peoples.
Until then, I keep watching, walking and listening.
Most drivers are encouraging with waves, honks, and flashing their headlights as they fly past the woman with the tangerine cart. I wave to every passing vehicle; I think it has become an automatic response to movement on the tarmac. I thoroughly enjoy the recognition that happens in a split second when we may or may not catch eyes but share a mutual acknowledgment of one another. A joy surges through my belly as I feel a kind of alliance between driver and walker with a mutual gratitude of travel.
And as soon as they're behind me I breathe in the momentary silence and release any tension my body may have accumulated with the closeness of a large metal body zooming past my slow tenuous body. A chiming shrike sings her song and carries my brain back down to my feet.
I smell the dirt that has crusted in my nose and the flies and I regain our battle for the little moisture left in my body.
The road that stretches for 5,305 kilometers (3,296 miles) slicing right through the backyard of the native nomads is surprisingly diverse. Each day has a different landscape though it is endless on the eyes and the place where sky meets earth holds shadows and secrets that enrapture me every sunrise and fall. I have walked 900 kilometers (560 miles) in Western Australia and it has built a home in my bones. I have slowly begun to understand why this ancient seabed is spiritually rich with aliveness. Solitude permeates every living creature and if I listen more deeply I can hear a song carried through the wind.
It's time for my afternoon toilet visit in the bush and as I tuck behind a place that seems like no human has been there for ages, I stagger between piles of fecal matter strewn with wet wipes, bottles of piss, beer cans and plastic fast food containers rusting next to a goat cemetery. It’s not a town and I’m still 70 Kilometers from a station. The serenity of this wild land quickly began looking like a scene from Mad Max, the filth of post-apocalypse.
A depressive sadness leans into me as I witness the abuse of this ancient landscape. An abuse that is rampant across the planet. As I squat pant-less between trash and bones I remember times when I have thought that my little paper cup or crumbled newspaper wouldn't make much of a difference if left behind. I pull up my pants, waving the flies away just enough to free myself from their ambush for a few seconds before returning to the black road.
When I began this walk, I vowed to leave as little trace behind me as possible. A shit in the bush renewed my commitment to recognize my impact and role to my immediate and ever-expanding environment.
The wind pushes against my face carrying my hat along with it. A car passes at 80 mph. Athena shakes and I think I can feel her shivers like sympathy pains. She looks as exhausted as I do, weathered from pushing towards the sun. I wait for the signal from my feet to regain my momentum.
My eyes have begun averting the cars that propel its passengers in air-conditioned movement towards a more desirable location for their holidays and keep my eyes between the shadows and spinifex. I sing with a desire that the dark-skinned ones will find me, that they'll hear my call and deem me worthy of a true walkabout in their land. One that doesn't exist between backyards, shopping centers, highways and quarries. A timeless yet harsh environment that only the skilled can survive and thrive in.
And so I keep walking, till she waves me in when the sun is three fingers width to setting. I leave Athena under a gum tree, strip off my clothes and head barefoot into the arms of the outback and it's peoples.
Until then, I keep watching, walking and listening.
ADDICTION + TRUE STRENGTH
He cradled his chin in his hand and when he smiled his whole face lifted the darkness he had been swimming in for the last six months.
He owned the General Store in a small coastal village I passed through. I had been camping in the sand dunes and came looking for water. He was looking for light.
I asked for directions at the local store in town. Maggie, an elder woman who met her cigarette with her tongue before consuming the entire filter into her mouth asked me to have a seat on the porch. I never made it to my destination. I spent the day visiting with Darryl.
"I didn't realize I was addicted. My wife and I used to do it together, then she quit before I was ready." He began sharing his story with me when I joined him for a cup of coffee.
"When did you quit?" I asked.
"The day she left."
He sat back in his chair and his jaw began to move about as if searching for something to grip to hold back his emotion. His fingers softly rubbed through his short beard, a strong dimple in his chin still visible.
He spoke softly with wide and hungry eyes, a hunger to be seen. He carried strong shoulders, the kind of shoulders that have thrown punches in protection and supported children climbing and wrestling as they test their body’s strength and agility. These shoulders were his own support when he began going through withdrawal.
With a conviction that he could let go of his affair with amphetamines and rejoin his family with a clear head and committed heart, he laid in the dark of his empty house facing his inner darkness. He watched shadows grow on the ceiling that formed faces of defeat and shame. His greatest pain was the feeling of letting down his children. He spoke of them with pride and admiration.
Darryl grew up a cowboy on a dairy farm and spent most of his career working as a laborer on farms, mines and anywhere he could play in the dirt. His callused hands still showed his hard work and the sun had long caressed his face.
He slept in the living room in the back of the shop. He couldn't bare being in the empty parts of the house where his children's laughter once reverberated through the thin walls. He had everything packed up in a garage and ready to take back to the town where his kids were anxiously awaiting his return home.
That night we drove to the water, using the sand bed to chase after the sunset.
We sipped Scotch as we shared our grief and our greatest hopes.
We shared thoughts on addiction.
“My addiction is the story of abandonment.” I continue on.
"It is the story I have carried my entire life, one I have danced with in every relationship. The addiction to feeling abandoned. But nobody has judged me for my addiction the way they may have with yours.”
We carried on for hours talking about the kinds of addictions we all have that are only visible when you're willing to look deeply into another's patterns and stories. It is easy for most to judge someone for having a drug, food or alcohol addiction but we leave unnoticed the stories about ourselves that we have spent a lifetime addicted to. I have quite a few addictions I've been working with that don't have such a bad withdrawal but the pain of looking at it could be easily compared. My Not-Smart-Enough, Not-Pretty-Enough, Will-Always-Be-Abandoned, Not-Loveable and Not-Worthy stories have been my escape and have caused me suffering and make me smaller than my true potential.
Darryl’s determination to overcome his addiction and devote his energy to his family was the medicine I needed: strength of mind and heart.
When I looked into his eyes I could see the battles he’s fought with only determination by his side.
"I left such a wonderful life behind to follow this calling. My heart has become an even greater mystery to me since I started walking. I don't know why I'm here. It's exciting and frightening." I stared out into the vast blue of water like I had spotted something, or perhaps just searching. Tears were gently born and wriggled their way down to my chin. I had flashes of the faces of men I have loved and the feelings that I had let them down by not loving them more fully and openly.
Then images of people and memories exploded in my perception. My best friend tending to her garden with her son paddling behind her with a watering can. My mother eating ice cream on a hot afternoon in only her bra and underwear. Snow falling on Christmas Day and trying to slip my feet into rain boots while laughing at myself for not getting snow boots after two years in a ski town. I smelled the tomato sauce my friend made for her homemade Stromboli.
Darrly put his hand on my knee, inviting my eyes to meet his, "Would it be ok with you, if one of the reasons you're here was to find me and bring me back to life?"
A smile grew on my face as the tears turned into weeping.
He drove me back to my camp, filling my bags with bread, fruit and a cream soda.
"Thank you for sharing so much of yourself with a stranger." I said as I began piling the bags onto my back and arms. "You know, I occasionally like to walk without Athena if someone can drop me off and pick me up where I left off. I hear you have three days left before heading back South."
A sarcastic smile grew on my face as he had already offered to help me with rides and store Athena in the back of the shop while I gained momentum without pulling her behind me.
He met me with equal humor about it and simply said, "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."
I walked with freedom and ease those three days, striding briskly along the gorgeous landscape of The Coastal Highway with wide strides and carrying only a hip pack. He would find me on the side of the road bearing fruit and a cream soda.
We spent our sunsets heading into the bush with binoculars. Darryl and I shared an affinity for bird watching. He would stop midsentence to name the bird and what the call was insinuating.
I called my God the skies and he called his the Earth.
The morning came that he was dropping me off at my last stopping point on the road so I would continue my walk up north and he'd head south to be a devoted father.
He grabbed my cheeks with both hands and with wide eyes he spoke softly, "You woke me up. I feel human again. Thank you, dune girl."
He stepped back and opened his empty palms upwards towards me as if they held something within them.
"What is it?" I asked with a youthful curiosity.
"A cup of concrete for when you need it. It is 2 cups sugar, 1 teaspoon concrete (preferably the Tough Shit Brand) and a half-teaspoon of determination. Then fill the rest of the cup full of love. Option to sprinkle kindness on top."
As gracefully as possible, I grabbed the imaginary cup, making sure not to spill any of it and took a sip.
"Wow, this tastes awful!" we both laughed as we embraced each other.
As he tipped his hat to me in a farewell, I whispered back, "Thank you, for sharing your strength with me."
He owned the General Store in a small coastal village I passed through. I had been camping in the sand dunes and came looking for water. He was looking for light.
I asked for directions at the local store in town. Maggie, an elder woman who met her cigarette with her tongue before consuming the entire filter into her mouth asked me to have a seat on the porch. I never made it to my destination. I spent the day visiting with Darryl.
"I didn't realize I was addicted. My wife and I used to do it together, then she quit before I was ready." He began sharing his story with me when I joined him for a cup of coffee.
"When did you quit?" I asked.
"The day she left."
He sat back in his chair and his jaw began to move about as if searching for something to grip to hold back his emotion. His fingers softly rubbed through his short beard, a strong dimple in his chin still visible.
He spoke softly with wide and hungry eyes, a hunger to be seen. He carried strong shoulders, the kind of shoulders that have thrown punches in protection and supported children climbing and wrestling as they test their body’s strength and agility. These shoulders were his own support when he began going through withdrawal.
With a conviction that he could let go of his affair with amphetamines and rejoin his family with a clear head and committed heart, he laid in the dark of his empty house facing his inner darkness. He watched shadows grow on the ceiling that formed faces of defeat and shame. His greatest pain was the feeling of letting down his children. He spoke of them with pride and admiration.
Darryl grew up a cowboy on a dairy farm and spent most of his career working as a laborer on farms, mines and anywhere he could play in the dirt. His callused hands still showed his hard work and the sun had long caressed his face.
He slept in the living room in the back of the shop. He couldn't bare being in the empty parts of the house where his children's laughter once reverberated through the thin walls. He had everything packed up in a garage and ready to take back to the town where his kids were anxiously awaiting his return home.
That night we drove to the water, using the sand bed to chase after the sunset.
We sipped Scotch as we shared our grief and our greatest hopes.
We shared thoughts on addiction.
“My addiction is the story of abandonment.” I continue on.
"It is the story I have carried my entire life, one I have danced with in every relationship. The addiction to feeling abandoned. But nobody has judged me for my addiction the way they may have with yours.”
We carried on for hours talking about the kinds of addictions we all have that are only visible when you're willing to look deeply into another's patterns and stories. It is easy for most to judge someone for having a drug, food or alcohol addiction but we leave unnoticed the stories about ourselves that we have spent a lifetime addicted to. I have quite a few addictions I've been working with that don't have such a bad withdrawal but the pain of looking at it could be easily compared. My Not-Smart-Enough, Not-Pretty-Enough, Will-Always-Be-Abandoned, Not-Loveable and Not-Worthy stories have been my escape and have caused me suffering and make me smaller than my true potential.
Darryl’s determination to overcome his addiction and devote his energy to his family was the medicine I needed: strength of mind and heart.
When I looked into his eyes I could see the battles he’s fought with only determination by his side.
"I left such a wonderful life behind to follow this calling. My heart has become an even greater mystery to me since I started walking. I don't know why I'm here. It's exciting and frightening." I stared out into the vast blue of water like I had spotted something, or perhaps just searching. Tears were gently born and wriggled their way down to my chin. I had flashes of the faces of men I have loved and the feelings that I had let them down by not loving them more fully and openly.
Then images of people and memories exploded in my perception. My best friend tending to her garden with her son paddling behind her with a watering can. My mother eating ice cream on a hot afternoon in only her bra and underwear. Snow falling on Christmas Day and trying to slip my feet into rain boots while laughing at myself for not getting snow boots after two years in a ski town. I smelled the tomato sauce my friend made for her homemade Stromboli.
Darrly put his hand on my knee, inviting my eyes to meet his, "Would it be ok with you, if one of the reasons you're here was to find me and bring me back to life?"
A smile grew on my face as the tears turned into weeping.
He drove me back to my camp, filling my bags with bread, fruit and a cream soda.
"Thank you for sharing so much of yourself with a stranger." I said as I began piling the bags onto my back and arms. "You know, I occasionally like to walk without Athena if someone can drop me off and pick me up where I left off. I hear you have three days left before heading back South."
A sarcastic smile grew on my face as he had already offered to help me with rides and store Athena in the back of the shop while I gained momentum without pulling her behind me.
He met me with equal humor about it and simply said, "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."
I walked with freedom and ease those three days, striding briskly along the gorgeous landscape of The Coastal Highway with wide strides and carrying only a hip pack. He would find me on the side of the road bearing fruit and a cream soda.
We spent our sunsets heading into the bush with binoculars. Darryl and I shared an affinity for bird watching. He would stop midsentence to name the bird and what the call was insinuating.
I called my God the skies and he called his the Earth.
The morning came that he was dropping me off at my last stopping point on the road so I would continue my walk up north and he'd head south to be a devoted father.
He grabbed my cheeks with both hands and with wide eyes he spoke softly, "You woke me up. I feel human again. Thank you, dune girl."
He stepped back and opened his empty palms upwards towards me as if they held something within them.
"What is it?" I asked with a youthful curiosity.
"A cup of concrete for when you need it. It is 2 cups sugar, 1 teaspoon concrete (preferably the Tough Shit Brand) and a half-teaspoon of determination. Then fill the rest of the cup full of love. Option to sprinkle kindness on top."
As gracefully as possible, I grabbed the imaginary cup, making sure not to spill any of it and took a sip.
"Wow, this tastes awful!" we both laughed as we embraced each other.
As he tipped his hat to me in a farewell, I whispered back, "Thank you, for sharing your strength with me."
CODE RED
The first time it came, I was waiting for it. It was time for my body to engage in its monthly release that would cause me to slow down, way down. The first day of my period has always been a dramatic event, creating a need for deep cocooning. The first time I understood that the feminine body truly needs support and rest during this phase was after reading The Red Tent. I began to reshape my rhythm around my moon cycle. I scheduled my clients and social events around it and allowed one to three days for my body to do as it needed. Sometimes it was to stay in bed all day or take a gentle walk in the forest. I had built a business that allowed me to arrange my schedule in tune with my cycle but most women don't. Most women are thrusted into an unnatural masculine rhythm of steadiness and consistency. The feminine is wild, chaotic and ever changing. When there is no structure to support our rhythm that happens 12 times every year, we must start creating it for ourselves, taking a stand for our bodies natural processes.
I daydreamed about a warm bath that filled the tub up to my collarbones as I attempted to insert my brand new silicone cup. My friend Ane had shared her love for the Sckoon Cup, which is healthier than a tampon, which tends to block the natural flow and most women leave it in way too long- I was always guilty of that as I seemed to think my tampons were the superhero’s of feminine products. I wanted to try something that would leave no trace behind because I couldn't imagine carrying soiled tampons with me through the desert.
I had practiced twice before beginning my walk and thought I had the whole process of insert, twist, and tug for suction down pat. It was 90 degrees Fahrenheit and the sun bright that afternoon. I was in a hurry with little coverage to block me from passing traffic. I waited till I heard no cars approaching in either direction and performed a quick and efficient insertion. I stepped back on to the tarmac feeling quite proud of my accomplishment in the bush and carried on.
My legs moved increasingly slower and grew heavier. My lower abdomen ached and I had to take my waist belt off and push Athena which slowly turned into me leaning on her with all my upper body weight. I was mainly throwing my leg forward and managing to balance on one foot while waiting for the next to take over.
I was headed for a station that on my map indicated had showers, the greatest delight after water and warm food.
The thought of just setting up camp and resting for the day had crossed my mind and caused me to stop and look at the landscape for possible camp spots. With no trees for shade I decided to just go slow and steady. Shower was my mantra.
I felt a familiar feeling of leakage between the legs that normally would have me shrieking to the bathroom quicker than Cat Woman. But stopping was not an option and I had convinced myself that it was probably just sweat between my thighs; after all, I'm sure I had inserted the cup correctly.
I rolled into the station just as the sun retreated behind the red hills. The exhaustion on my face must have been loud and obvious as they kindly offered me a free nights camp. I ordered a cheeseburger and went to set up my tent. The lady working the counter called after me as I headed out the door, "Are you ok?" and she points to my ankle, which is just slightly exposed due to tying up my pant legs to keep dust off them. There's a stain of dripped burgundy that made me question if I had cut myself and not felt it. I pull up my pant leg and followed the drip right up to my knee. Having had more embarrassing encounters with period stains I didn't get shy as I replied with a shrug and giggle, "Yes, still learning how to be on the road, it's like going through puberty all over again."
I postponed tent set-up till after the showers. Getting undressed I noticed that my inner legs were stained from thigh to ankle reminding me of a Pollock painting. I hadn't inserted it correctly (I know, Ane, I should have practiced more!). I said my appreciation for black pants and quickly hopped into the shower. I couldn't stand anymore and opted to sit on the floor and let the hot water pour over my crouched body. I ate my burger like a starving child and passed out with it half eaten next to me.
The next morning I was determined to try my cup one more time and I had a private bathroom to take my time and get more acquainted with my long-term relationship with this silicone device. I took a closer look at her, shaped like a small espresso cup with thick but malleable edges and a little rubbery tail that, unfortunately, I learned the hard way, is not to be pulled on as it will snap back like a taught rubber-band.
Legs steady and ready, a deep breath to relax all my muscles and I could already see my successful exit from this endeavor right before losing grip and it flew towards the sink, bounced off the wall and landed in a bucket of dirty mopping liquid. With my pants around my ankles I just stared at the bucket for a few moments before waddling over to peer over the thick brown water.
With a sigh that carried a vocal hum, I went fishing for it. I washed it and with grim determination tried again. With an air of pride that I wasn't defeated by an inanimate object, I stepped out, tossed my hair and proclaimed to the Grey parrots perched on the clothes line "Oh yeah- I sure did!"
Then I bought some tampons, just in case!
The first time it came, I was waiting for it. It was time for my body to engage in its monthly release that would cause me to slow down, way down. The first day of my period has always been a dramatic event, creating a need for deep cocooning. The first time I understood that the feminine body truly needs support and rest during this phase was after reading The Red Tent. I began to reshape my rhythm around my moon cycle. I scheduled my clients and social events around it and allowed one to three days for my body to do as it needed. Sometimes it was to stay in bed all day or take a gentle walk in the forest. I had built a business that allowed me to arrange my schedule in tune with my cycle but most women don't. Most women are thrusted into an unnatural masculine rhythm of steadiness and consistency. The feminine is wild, chaotic and ever changing. When there is no structure to support our rhythm that happens 12 times every year, we must start creating it for ourselves, taking a stand for our bodies natural processes.
I daydreamed about a warm bath that filled the tub up to my collarbones as I attempted to insert my brand new silicone cup. My friend Ane had shared her love for the Sckoon Cup, which is healthier than a tampon, which tends to block the natural flow and most women leave it in way too long- I was always guilty of that as I seemed to think my tampons were the superhero’s of feminine products. I wanted to try something that would leave no trace behind because I couldn't imagine carrying soiled tampons with me through the desert.
I had practiced twice before beginning my walk and thought I had the whole process of insert, twist, and tug for suction down pat. It was 90 degrees Fahrenheit and the sun bright that afternoon. I was in a hurry with little coverage to block me from passing traffic. I waited till I heard no cars approaching in either direction and performed a quick and efficient insertion. I stepped back on to the tarmac feeling quite proud of my accomplishment in the bush and carried on.
My legs moved increasingly slower and grew heavier. My lower abdomen ached and I had to take my waist belt off and push Athena which slowly turned into me leaning on her with all my upper body weight. I was mainly throwing my leg forward and managing to balance on one foot while waiting for the next to take over.
I was headed for a station that on my map indicated had showers, the greatest delight after water and warm food.
The thought of just setting up camp and resting for the day had crossed my mind and caused me to stop and look at the landscape for possible camp spots. With no trees for shade I decided to just go slow and steady. Shower was my mantra.
I felt a familiar feeling of leakage between the legs that normally would have me shrieking to the bathroom quicker than Cat Woman. But stopping was not an option and I had convinced myself that it was probably just sweat between my thighs; after all, I'm sure I had inserted the cup correctly.
I rolled into the station just as the sun retreated behind the red hills. The exhaustion on my face must have been loud and obvious as they kindly offered me a free nights camp. I ordered a cheeseburger and went to set up my tent. The lady working the counter called after me as I headed out the door, "Are you ok?" and she points to my ankle, which is just slightly exposed due to tying up my pant legs to keep dust off them. There's a stain of dripped burgundy that made me question if I had cut myself and not felt it. I pull up my pant leg and followed the drip right up to my knee. Having had more embarrassing encounters with period stains I didn't get shy as I replied with a shrug and giggle, "Yes, still learning how to be on the road, it's like going through puberty all over again."
I postponed tent set-up till after the showers. Getting undressed I noticed that my inner legs were stained from thigh to ankle reminding me of a Pollock painting. I hadn't inserted it correctly (I know, Ane, I should have practiced more!). I said my appreciation for black pants and quickly hopped into the shower. I couldn't stand anymore and opted to sit on the floor and let the hot water pour over my crouched body. I ate my burger like a starving child and passed out with it half eaten next to me.
The next morning I was determined to try my cup one more time and I had a private bathroom to take my time and get more acquainted with my long-term relationship with this silicone device. I took a closer look at her, shaped like a small espresso cup with thick but malleable edges and a little rubbery tail that, unfortunately, I learned the hard way, is not to be pulled on as it will snap back like a taught rubber-band.
Legs steady and ready, a deep breath to relax all my muscles and I could already see my successful exit from this endeavor right before losing grip and it flew towards the sink, bounced off the wall and landed in a bucket of dirty mopping liquid. With my pants around my ankles I just stared at the bucket for a few moments before waddling over to peer over the thick brown water.
With a sigh that carried a vocal hum, I went fishing for it. I washed it and with grim determination tried again. With an air of pride that I wasn't defeated by an inanimate object, I stepped out, tossed my hair and proclaimed to the Grey parrots perched on the clothes line "Oh yeah- I sure did!"
Then I bought some tampons, just in case!
CARTOON AFTERNOON
She woke throughout the night coughing.
One of her brothers slept on a cot next to hers in the main room of the house, just a few feet away from me. They had insisted I sleep inside the house with them and had fed me beef stew and black tea. The only other white person who visited their village was a parole officer making his monthly check-up rounds but he never went inside their house.
The family had only been reunited for four years. Their mother fell ill to the most common addiction in aboriginal communities, alcoholism.
This was the reason Zoe was taken from her mother after birth and given to an Aussie couple. She didn’t know anything about her birth family until police showed up one afternoon to take her to her siblings, who were given a house by the government. Her eldest sister had been working on reuniting all the siblings and Zoe was the last to join them.
There was no furniture in the house besides a few cots and a television. Trash covered the yard as their pregnant dog gnawed on cardboard. Most beds were devoid of a pillow and blanket, consisting only of a thin sheet. Flies choreographed their moves around our faces and tiny cockroaches never seemed to hurry about as they perused the wood floor. I would later discover that this was a typical aboriginal community; it was no more littered or financially distressed as any other villages nearby. While I was initially shocked at the apparent neglect and poverty, I would see much worse in my adventures in due time.
With their only income from the government, they often went hunting in the bush for wild cattle. When they couldn’t afford bullets, they used their cars to hit and then repeatedly run over the cow until it’s no longer moving. They line the backseat of the car with plastic and hack the bull into as many pieces as possible till everything but the head fits. This answered the mystery of why I saw so many cow heads strewn across the desert floor.
After one of Zoe's coughing fits, I heard her brother Harry shift on his cot and sharply shout to his sister, "Fight it, Zoe. Don't let it take you over."
Another round of coughing and Zoe whimpers a grunt in response that might have said something like leave me alone.
"You've got to go to school. Don't think a cough will get you out of it. You're going to see Nurse Mila in the morning."
This went on for an hour, Zoe coughing and Harry boasting his opinion on how she needs to get better. His tone was caring but cold and Zoe never spoke.
When I first met Zoe, she was the shyest one. We were introduced but she kept a fair distance from me, quietly observing my interactions with the others.
I was parking Athena on the front porch as I noticed her watching me unpack my belongings. She slowly walked towards me and placed her delicate fingers on my walking cane. She beamed a timid smile and I handed it over for her inspection. I invited her to look after it for me through the night. I discovered the next morning that she had slept with it in her bed.
Zoe's voice was soft and difficult to hear. I always had to lean into her and usually ask her to repeat herself. She shared that she was eleven years old, had a boyfriend, didn’t like cheese and thought her mom didn’t want her. She hadn’t seemed to acclimate to her new family and often felt like an outsider.
I woke before sunrise to take a stroll through the tiny, ten-house community. Most everyone that lives in the village is blood related. Only a marriage will take a girl to another tribe. The men usually never leave.
I saw Zoe's figure walking towards me. Her face showed exhaustion and restlessness. She reached my side and slipped her hand in mine. We walked silently till the sun rose.
Zoe helped me pack up Athena and walked me to my day's starting point to head north. With few words spoken, we shared our appreciation in a quiet embrace. I had fallen in love with this sad-eyed young girl with a soft heart and reserved voice.
As I walked alone again I had fantasies about taking her with me, to share hopes of a brighter day. To show her the world and the possibilities that can embrace her. I wanted to love her like a mother that wanted her.
A few hours passed when an ambulance pulled up alongside me.
"We've got Zoe and she's told us all about you. She'd like to say goodbye one more time."
They opened the side doors and Zoe had a beaming smile while an IV dripped into her forearm.
"She has pneumonia. If you make it into Derby in the next few days you can visit her at the hospital in the children's ward."
I asked Zoe if she'd like me to come see her. She nodded and I promised to get there as soon as I could.
Derby was off my course by two days walk. I hadn't planned on going there but I made the detour to have an afternoon holding Zoe, sipping apple juice and watching cartoons. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed watching Tom and Jerry as I did next to her.
One of her brothers slept on a cot next to hers in the main room of the house, just a few feet away from me. They had insisted I sleep inside the house with them and had fed me beef stew and black tea. The only other white person who visited their village was a parole officer making his monthly check-up rounds but he never went inside their house.
The family had only been reunited for four years. Their mother fell ill to the most common addiction in aboriginal communities, alcoholism.
This was the reason Zoe was taken from her mother after birth and given to an Aussie couple. She didn’t know anything about her birth family until police showed up one afternoon to take her to her siblings, who were given a house by the government. Her eldest sister had been working on reuniting all the siblings and Zoe was the last to join them.
There was no furniture in the house besides a few cots and a television. Trash covered the yard as their pregnant dog gnawed on cardboard. Most beds were devoid of a pillow and blanket, consisting only of a thin sheet. Flies choreographed their moves around our faces and tiny cockroaches never seemed to hurry about as they perused the wood floor. I would later discover that this was a typical aboriginal community; it was no more littered or financially distressed as any other villages nearby. While I was initially shocked at the apparent neglect and poverty, I would see much worse in my adventures in due time.
With their only income from the government, they often went hunting in the bush for wild cattle. When they couldn’t afford bullets, they used their cars to hit and then repeatedly run over the cow until it’s no longer moving. They line the backseat of the car with plastic and hack the bull into as many pieces as possible till everything but the head fits. This answered the mystery of why I saw so many cow heads strewn across the desert floor.
After one of Zoe's coughing fits, I heard her brother Harry shift on his cot and sharply shout to his sister, "Fight it, Zoe. Don't let it take you over."
Another round of coughing and Zoe whimpers a grunt in response that might have said something like leave me alone.
"You've got to go to school. Don't think a cough will get you out of it. You're going to see Nurse Mila in the morning."
This went on for an hour, Zoe coughing and Harry boasting his opinion on how she needs to get better. His tone was caring but cold and Zoe never spoke.
When I first met Zoe, she was the shyest one. We were introduced but she kept a fair distance from me, quietly observing my interactions with the others.
I was parking Athena on the front porch as I noticed her watching me unpack my belongings. She slowly walked towards me and placed her delicate fingers on my walking cane. She beamed a timid smile and I handed it over for her inspection. I invited her to look after it for me through the night. I discovered the next morning that she had slept with it in her bed.
Zoe's voice was soft and difficult to hear. I always had to lean into her and usually ask her to repeat herself. She shared that she was eleven years old, had a boyfriend, didn’t like cheese and thought her mom didn’t want her. She hadn’t seemed to acclimate to her new family and often felt like an outsider.
I woke before sunrise to take a stroll through the tiny, ten-house community. Most everyone that lives in the village is blood related. Only a marriage will take a girl to another tribe. The men usually never leave.
I saw Zoe's figure walking towards me. Her face showed exhaustion and restlessness. She reached my side and slipped her hand in mine. We walked silently till the sun rose.
Zoe helped me pack up Athena and walked me to my day's starting point to head north. With few words spoken, we shared our appreciation in a quiet embrace. I had fallen in love with this sad-eyed young girl with a soft heart and reserved voice.
As I walked alone again I had fantasies about taking her with me, to share hopes of a brighter day. To show her the world and the possibilities that can embrace her. I wanted to love her like a mother that wanted her.
A few hours passed when an ambulance pulled up alongside me.
"We've got Zoe and she's told us all about you. She'd like to say goodbye one more time."
They opened the side doors and Zoe had a beaming smile while an IV dripped into her forearm.
"She has pneumonia. If you make it into Derby in the next few days you can visit her at the hospital in the children's ward."
I asked Zoe if she'd like me to come see her. She nodded and I promised to get there as soon as I could.
Derby was off my course by two days walk. I hadn't planned on going there but I made the detour to have an afternoon holding Zoe, sipping apple juice and watching cartoons. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed watching Tom and Jerry as I did next to her.
TAKING A STAND
I didn’t know cows were naturally inquisitive creatures. If you can get close to them, lie very still on the ground, chances are their curiosity will compel them to move in for a chance to examine you. If you don’t mind the inevitability of snot and drool dripping on some part of your body, I highly recommend trying it.
Now, it must be said that this tends to only work with domesticated cows, the ones that are accustomed to humans and usually raised on a farm.
Though I did try this out a few times with the more robust Brahman bulls roaming freely in the Outback, the main response was simply running as fast as they could in the opposite direction from me. They have very little contact with humans and when they do they are usually being mustered, prodded, and corralled.
It fascinates me that so many fellow Australians were concerned about my safety around wild bulls. Initially concerned not to appear naïve to the possible dangers of the wild outback, I patiently listened to the stories people shared, like a raging bull running towards a tourist vehicle or the time a bull supposedly charged towards a woman causing her to run to the roof of her 4wd where she became dehydrated and deranged while waiting for the beast to leave her alone. The latter story placed images from the movie Cujo where the dog was foaming at the mouth and the woman was trapped in her car. A wild bull can’t be that rabid, can it?
I would often pause for a moment and walk cautiously around a Brahman bull in my path. Every time, without fail, they would simply run or just keep grazing. I became quite enamored with them. They had a graceful movement about them and reminded me of a cross between a Friesian dairy cow (the black and white speckled cows most of us think of) and a camel. They hold a fat-filled hump on their back, which helps them thrive in the desert.
Over time, I began resting in the afternoon shade as close to them as I could. I enjoyed watching them cuddled under a small tree or grazing near a river. A wonderful surprise was watching a mother teach her young how to use the bristly bark of a grass tree to scratch its hide.
The weather had been pretty easy on me for several weeks. The days were warm but the heat that I would soon encounter that caused a bout with heat stroke hadn’t set in yet. The nights were windy and cool. I had just gained confidence in sleeping out in the open under the stars.
I remember how Robyn Davidson had only used a sleeping bag when she walked across Australia with three camels and a dog. It gave me the courage to try it myself. What made me hesitate in the first place was the fear of feeling something scaly and cold slither across my face or into my sleeping bag. I decided that since I hadn’t seen a single snake so far I would give it a try.
I was hooked from the first night. The wind kept the mosquitoes away. There was minimal set-up at night, which allowed me more time to enjoy a meal under the glow of the sienna sunset. My morning pack-up felt more efficient and I was walking with the orbit of the sun as soon as the first rays touched my face.
I found a sandy clearing marginally tucked behind a few termite mounds. There was an island of palms set to the right that would comfortably keep me hidden from oncoming road trains and block most of the glare from their headlights.
After my typical meal of spaghetti and red sauce, I read a chapter from a book, comfortably tucked into my sleeping bag. It was a bit chillier and gusty than usual so I used my inner silk lining which is much like a sheet sown into a cocoon shape adding several more degrees of warmth. I found it to be entangling and difficult to maneuver in, I was often tugging and yanking it around when it got twisted from my constant shifting throughout the night.
Mid-chapter I heard a deep-bellied grunt. My mind jumped- LION!
Then I realized I’m not in Africa.
It can’t be a man-eating creature. It must be a dingo or a bull. Another grunt helped me locate its direction and genus. It was coming from behind me in the collection of trees and it was definitely a bull. Not worried about a bull’s call, I smiled at the beauty of being able to sleep outside near a gentle beast while reading a story about a woman in Iraq. I felt privileged and happy to experience what felt like a luxury.
Within a few moments, another grunt, weaker in sound but this one came from in front of me. I was admittedly perplexed as I thought that was skillfully quick to have made it so far to the other side of the road. I heard a road train coming and my habit is to turn off my headlamp to avoid being seen. I shut my book as I watched the truck move closer. In the luminous effects of its high beams I could see the Brahman bull that was sounding off from in front of me.
She is beautiful, I thought to myself.
A pristinely cool-white coat and a trot that reminded me of a poodle prancing for first prize at a dog show. I’m guessing it took a solid fifteen seconds in admiration of her beauty before I realized her trot was a charge.
She was charging at me!
I did what I feared I would do, I froze.
I was in disbelief that there was a bull running in my direction. So, I waited till after the truck passed and all I could see was her shadow-image, which was still running in my direction, before I began scrambling upwards. I think fumbling may be a better description as I fought the cocoon sheet still tightly wrapped around me.
After I attempted to bend one leg to standup, and of course failed, you may know if you’ve ever tried doing anything one-legged in a cocoon-shaped sleeping bag, and quickly picked myself up from my face plant into the dirt to reach for my walking stick.
I remembered hearing that the key to a charging bull is to make yourself look larger than you are and make a loud sound.
She’s about ten feet from me and with limited motion in my legs, I start jumping up and down and yelping out “aye-aye-aye-aye-aye” that later made me thank my childhood days watching Speedy Gonzalez.
She stopped. She snorted. Then calmly walked off.
I was still huffing and puffing. It wasn’t a life and death experience. She wasn’t lethally venomous. She didn’t have carnivorous claws or fangs to eat my flesh.
But she scared me.
She was probably responding to the bull behind me, perhaps a mating call, and I was simply in the middle of her path.
With the brightness of a waxing moon I stood in the sandy field with my walking stick in mid air like a bat. I felt inspired to defend my territory for the night. I took a deep breath and placed the end of my wooden-stick-turned-magical-staff down as I proclaimed to every living creature, whether hoofed, winged, or leg-less to let me sleep here tonight and I’d be on my way in the morning.
Another deep breath and I felt more at ease with my earthly surroundings and it’s inhabitants.
I walked back over to my bed to discover the wind had stolen my inflatable pillow.
Without panic but filled with longing, I looked in all directions for any sign of it.
I resigned to the idea that it was a decent cost to pay the desert for showing me that I can stand in the face of fear. Or for now, a galloping bull.
Now, it must be said that this tends to only work with domesticated cows, the ones that are accustomed to humans and usually raised on a farm.
Though I did try this out a few times with the more robust Brahman bulls roaming freely in the Outback, the main response was simply running as fast as they could in the opposite direction from me. They have very little contact with humans and when they do they are usually being mustered, prodded, and corralled.
It fascinates me that so many fellow Australians were concerned about my safety around wild bulls. Initially concerned not to appear naïve to the possible dangers of the wild outback, I patiently listened to the stories people shared, like a raging bull running towards a tourist vehicle or the time a bull supposedly charged towards a woman causing her to run to the roof of her 4wd where she became dehydrated and deranged while waiting for the beast to leave her alone. The latter story placed images from the movie Cujo where the dog was foaming at the mouth and the woman was trapped in her car. A wild bull can’t be that rabid, can it?
I would often pause for a moment and walk cautiously around a Brahman bull in my path. Every time, without fail, they would simply run or just keep grazing. I became quite enamored with them. They had a graceful movement about them and reminded me of a cross between a Friesian dairy cow (the black and white speckled cows most of us think of) and a camel. They hold a fat-filled hump on their back, which helps them thrive in the desert.
Over time, I began resting in the afternoon shade as close to them as I could. I enjoyed watching them cuddled under a small tree or grazing near a river. A wonderful surprise was watching a mother teach her young how to use the bristly bark of a grass tree to scratch its hide.
The weather had been pretty easy on me for several weeks. The days were warm but the heat that I would soon encounter that caused a bout with heat stroke hadn’t set in yet. The nights were windy and cool. I had just gained confidence in sleeping out in the open under the stars.
I remember how Robyn Davidson had only used a sleeping bag when she walked across Australia with three camels and a dog. It gave me the courage to try it myself. What made me hesitate in the first place was the fear of feeling something scaly and cold slither across my face or into my sleeping bag. I decided that since I hadn’t seen a single snake so far I would give it a try.
I was hooked from the first night. The wind kept the mosquitoes away. There was minimal set-up at night, which allowed me more time to enjoy a meal under the glow of the sienna sunset. My morning pack-up felt more efficient and I was walking with the orbit of the sun as soon as the first rays touched my face.
I found a sandy clearing marginally tucked behind a few termite mounds. There was an island of palms set to the right that would comfortably keep me hidden from oncoming road trains and block most of the glare from their headlights.
After my typical meal of spaghetti and red sauce, I read a chapter from a book, comfortably tucked into my sleeping bag. It was a bit chillier and gusty than usual so I used my inner silk lining which is much like a sheet sown into a cocoon shape adding several more degrees of warmth. I found it to be entangling and difficult to maneuver in, I was often tugging and yanking it around when it got twisted from my constant shifting throughout the night.
Mid-chapter I heard a deep-bellied grunt. My mind jumped- LION!
Then I realized I’m not in Africa.
It can’t be a man-eating creature. It must be a dingo or a bull. Another grunt helped me locate its direction and genus. It was coming from behind me in the collection of trees and it was definitely a bull. Not worried about a bull’s call, I smiled at the beauty of being able to sleep outside near a gentle beast while reading a story about a woman in Iraq. I felt privileged and happy to experience what felt like a luxury.
Within a few moments, another grunt, weaker in sound but this one came from in front of me. I was admittedly perplexed as I thought that was skillfully quick to have made it so far to the other side of the road. I heard a road train coming and my habit is to turn off my headlamp to avoid being seen. I shut my book as I watched the truck move closer. In the luminous effects of its high beams I could see the Brahman bull that was sounding off from in front of me.
She is beautiful, I thought to myself.
A pristinely cool-white coat and a trot that reminded me of a poodle prancing for first prize at a dog show. I’m guessing it took a solid fifteen seconds in admiration of her beauty before I realized her trot was a charge.
She was charging at me!
I did what I feared I would do, I froze.
I was in disbelief that there was a bull running in my direction. So, I waited till after the truck passed and all I could see was her shadow-image, which was still running in my direction, before I began scrambling upwards. I think fumbling may be a better description as I fought the cocoon sheet still tightly wrapped around me.
After I attempted to bend one leg to standup, and of course failed, you may know if you’ve ever tried doing anything one-legged in a cocoon-shaped sleeping bag, and quickly picked myself up from my face plant into the dirt to reach for my walking stick.
I remembered hearing that the key to a charging bull is to make yourself look larger than you are and make a loud sound.
She’s about ten feet from me and with limited motion in my legs, I start jumping up and down and yelping out “aye-aye-aye-aye-aye” that later made me thank my childhood days watching Speedy Gonzalez.
She stopped. She snorted. Then calmly walked off.
I was still huffing and puffing. It wasn’t a life and death experience. She wasn’t lethally venomous. She didn’t have carnivorous claws or fangs to eat my flesh.
But she scared me.
She was probably responding to the bull behind me, perhaps a mating call, and I was simply in the middle of her path.
With the brightness of a waxing moon I stood in the sandy field with my walking stick in mid air like a bat. I felt inspired to defend my territory for the night. I took a deep breath and placed the end of my wooden-stick-turned-magical-staff down as I proclaimed to every living creature, whether hoofed, winged, or leg-less to let me sleep here tonight and I’d be on my way in the morning.
Another deep breath and I felt more at ease with my earthly surroundings and it’s inhabitants.
I walked back over to my bed to discover the wind had stolen my inflatable pillow.
Without panic but filled with longing, I looked in all directions for any sign of it.
I resigned to the idea that it was a decent cost to pay the desert for showing me that I can stand in the face of fear. Or for now, a galloping bull.
WHEN IT'S TENDER
When I can’t walk anymore, I can still dance.
When my feet burn, I place them in prostration to the sky.
If it rains, I open my mouth to drink.
When the heat scolds, I make shade.
When my heart aches for what I miss, I sing aloud.
When the moon rises, I sway my hips in anticipation.
When I feel alone, I wrap my arms around my chest.
If I want to give up, I keep walking.
When my feet burn, I place them in prostration to the sky.
If it rains, I open my mouth to drink.
When the heat scolds, I make shade.
When my heart aches for what I miss, I sing aloud.
When the moon rises, I sway my hips in anticipation.
When I feel alone, I wrap my arms around my chest.
If I want to give up, I keep walking.