The West Wind

bathurst harbour

The West Wind- a diary

 

May 9th, 2016.

30kg on my back. 140km/h winds in my face. Torrential rains not seen since 1958. Eleven days before I’d see another human.

Day One

Sunlight bursts through clouds over Mt Anne and onto Lake Pedder.

The air shimmers as black cockatoos screech then fly off to the south.

Green buttongrass erupts out of the burnt earth.

Junction Creek is deep. Cross on a log-jam.

The sky darkens with the early evening. Silhouettes of the Arthurs cut through the wet mist.

Under torchlight, the track turns into rivers and spurting yabby holes. I slosh through and struggle to control the pack.

The water is freezing but my muscles produce fire under the strain.

Water pours from the sky and ground but I’m dehydrated. The wind thrashes my bare legs. I pull on waterproof pants.

A yabby leans back and snaps in defence.

I stagger off the path and throw my pack down. My body heaves, cramps and shivers. It’s not used to the load. I whisper to it to be calm.

My hands shake as I feed the single pole into the fly. The wind flicks it into the air. I pull out dad’s large plastic pegs and shove them into the rocky ground. It’s a calm and warm world under the fly. I gasp with the cramps. I sing to stay warm. I clip on the inner and throw my gear inside then shove the pack outside with a waterproof cover over it.

I zip myself in and put extra air in my mat then wriggle into my sleeping bag.

The wind makes the tent chatter on the rocky ground. Rain blasts onto the fly. The tent flexes then flicks off the drops.

I wake up parched in the middle of the night and go out to collect water from a stream.

Day Two.

Storms rip through the morning. The wind and rain has me shivering within ten minutes. I want to get used to the cold but it’s time to put on a fleece.

I leave camp after taking about fifteen minutes to get my sodden socks on. The pack’s soaked and heavier. Ten minutes of sunshine.

The creeks are flooded near the Crossing River and the campsite’s unreachable. A new river has formed off the Arthur Plains and blocks the way. I head upstream and spend an hour and a half being rebirthed through 50 metres of flooded forest. The pack jams on every tree and almost drags me under.

The river’s flowing fast. Rapids will bury me beneath submerged logs further down.

Stars appear.

Lightning flashes over the burnt forest. The sky breaks. Thunder rattles the ground. A large, dead tree hangs over my head. There’ s nowhere else to go. Forty mythical jets scream from the darkness. I’m trapped on an island. Rains lash the tent. I don’t know if the river’s rising. A branch hits the fly. It’s okay. The storm climbs the distant mountains.

Hail.

Day Three

Patchy rain pushes the river up. Water rushes into the forests on both sides. I find higher ground as a backup. Winds roar overhead but I’m sheltered here. The dead tree will crush me if it breaks. I’m cosy. I flick a bloated leech out from under my fingernail.

Fire has singed but not killed the large trees. The banksia s are blackened skeletons.

I’m lying at the boundary to the wild; the gates of the Inner Kingdom. I must pass a test to gain acceptance. I’m heading to an ancient part of the human story. I must let go of fear. I have to let go of the fear of flooding. What is there? Fear of being crushed, of cold, animals, lightning, wind and rain.

The storm transforms into the gargle and rush of a flooded river.

I’m standing on the threshold of a magical world. Will you open your gates? I must let fear go.

A crescent moon shines through the forest. Stars appear. The universe opens a brief window.

Day Four

The river rages. A single bird calls out. The sun forgets to rise.

I’ve prepared an emergency camp on higher ground and place markers at various locations.

If all the land becomes inundated I will retreat back across the buttongrass.

Darkness comes.

The river keeps rising and I evacuate to higher ground. Water rushes into my first camp. I wait under the fly at the second location. It’s about to flood. I use my torch to search for dry ground. My only option is a small slice of the riverbank.

I take it.

Day Five

The river has dropped by over a metre. It’s still not enough. It’s the same as when I got here and too dangerous to cross.

I search upstream and break back onto the plains. A rainbow appears.

I dry my clothes in a few rays of sunshine before heading downstream. Nothing.

A tall eucalyptus lifts the earth from the ground as it sways back and forth. It looms over my tent. Another st orm is coming. My window is closing. I’m sleeping in half the tent and have my gear in the other half just under the fly.

I think about portaging my gear across in multiple trips. I could make it. The problem is the pack. I may try to cross tomorrow in a slower but deeper section.

More rain. I could make a raft out of all the fallen trees and pole my way across.

I’m happy to be warm and dry inside a tent. It’s calm for a while. Winds start up again with their mechanical hum. Squadrons of fighter jets open their afterburners in the sky. A clove of garlic goes down well. The husk of a cicada still clings to a tree.

The river empties then fills. Incessant, steady, unrelenting rain.

Day Six

I find possible crossing points downstream and pack my things. The river is still in flood but it’s the lowest I’ve seen it. It’s 1.5 metres lower than the highest level I marked.

I fight through the scrub with my pack. Cutting grass shreds my face and legs. Giant gums blanket the ground in fallen bark. A moss-covered shore leads to a point where the river turns at a right angle and is shallow almost to the other side. I wade out over the rocks and close to a fallen tree. Maybe if I could reach it? The current wrenches on my waist and freezing water rams into my shins. My legs burn.

I jump in further down, to the side of some rapids. The current has snapped and jammed logs. I back away and clamber over a tree then fall into a swamp. I struggle to right myself.

Further downstream I reach a ten metre cliff on the right hand side. It’s where the Arthur Plains drop away into the river.

I straddle a high log. It’s too slippery to walk over. I lie down. The weight of my pack has me pinned. I summon all my strength and push with one foot against the log and make it across. Below is a pool of black water and twisted logs. The support log I’m holding breaks away.

I clamber up the cliff. It’s a conglomerate of polished stones.

A giant trunk seems to be turning into coal. A waterfall tumbles off the plains.

I clamber back under the cliff then onto the plains and head back to camp.

The Arthurs have become a giant volcano shrouded in mist. I reach my camp, put up my tent then rain pelts down.

Roaring winds turn the downpour into scattered blasts.

Day Seven

Even the Amazon begins as a puddle.

Rain has continued into the night and the river’s high again. It seems crossable when it’s at its lowest point but a mistake will mea n losing the gear or drowning.

I head upstream to find an area where the river has less power. It seems like about a hundred streams feed into it, so I want to cross as many as I can. My map shows a double sandbar at the 195 metre level on an S bend. It’s 2ks away.

A clove of raw garlic burns into the pit of my stomach but it’s still good. Maca and cocoa. Wheatgrass. Nuts. Salt and muesli bars. The freshest water on Earth.

I’ve been having strange and powerful dreams. There are no animals around, just a few honeyeaters.

I’ve been watching this river go from fast flowing to flood in a few hours. It drops by about a metre in four or five hours but then only goes down a centimetre or so every half an hour. It would need 24 hours of no rain to be crossable, 48 would be ideal. Ten hours is the longest time the rain’s stopped in the last six days.

Blue skies appear and I sing to the river for it to go down.

I follow a wombat path up the riverbank and pass ten or more streams that feed into the Crossing River. It doesn’t make any difference, water thunders down from the mountains. I hope that the rains will hold off so I can cross tomorrow.

I stand on the Arthur Plains in the hail.

Dad died over there and I’m beginning here. I feel more patience now. It has returned. It’s nice to only hear the river and a whispering breeze.

The largest patch of blue sky appears since I started. A pink glow lights up thin clouds. I hope it’s a starry night. Birds chatter and fly around.

I skim a stone across the river and it makes it to the other side. A stone.

The sun goes down and the rain and wind pick up.

I’m warm and content in my tent.

Rolling thunder follows two lightning flashes. The moon comes out with a few flickering stars. Everything falls away, leaving only the gurgle and rush of the river, a simple symphony.

6:47pm Sunday, 15th of May. Attenborough turned 90 last week.

Homemade muesli bars still go down well. Another three weeks or so of them.

Ways to cross a river:

Stilts. A big pole and fall across. Build a bridge. Build a raft. Swim and use my dry bag to take gear in multiple trips. Tie rope on either side and do aerial portage. Wade across. Sit on top of a skimming stone. Go upstream. Make a kite.

Moonlight plays on the ground as stars break through the clouds. The river gurgles and sloshes as the patter of precipitation falls on the tent.

The rain stops.

It’s the sky full of stars I imagined. A bird calls. The moon has gone. It danced its beautiful blue light into the white twinkle of the stars and the green glow of the southern sky. The river is still deep but calm like a lapping ocean. The Southern Cross. I am home again as I was under the stars of Namibia and Botswana in the Okavango Delta. There are no hyenas here to steal me out of bed.

A constant electric hum.

From the Outer Kingdom to the inner world. I’m on the threshold and must pass a test of faith, of courage.

The river is at its lowest but only about 10cm lower than before. It’s still running fast. I will wait. I’ll watch the skies and cross before the next rains.

The stars have gone to bed.

Water keeps me alive but when I cross, it could sweep me away.

Day Eight

The sky’s still clear. I decide to cross at 12pm. The river hasn’t gone down much since the early morning. This will be my only window. I can’t wait until tomorrow because more storms will come. I still think about pole-vaulting or making a bridge. I find a long, dead eucalyptus and slide it into the river. The current jams it against a submerged tree until it flexes back and cracks.

A few drops of rain fall. I rush to pack up my gear. I’m ready. It’s a leap of faith. I calculate how fast the water’s flowing: Too fast. I imagine getting sucked into the rapids and tumbling and smashing my head. I let those thoughts go and imagine charging to the other side. Should I charge and scream or be certain of every footstep? Slow and steady. I think it’s just that the water’s cold and black. It plays on my fears. Light keeps shining into the other side to reveal the orange rocks below.

My deadline comes. I run around trying to think of other ways to cross. It seems like my options are to turn back or die. I don’t want to die just over the hill from where dad died. I almost get into the water many times with two walking poles I’ve made from thick branches. Death. Death. Death. I think about doing a trial run without my pack but know that if I go then I go all in.

Time ticks down. My window will close. It’s 1:29pm. I tighten my laces. I’m going. I hold my sticks out and focus on the golden shore. I jump in and stumble backwards. The cold water shocks the oxygen out of my lungs. The weight of my pack makes it difficult to right myself. I drag it back up and it’s soaked. I crouch over and focus. I use a wide stance and make sure my feet slide into good positions between the smooth rocks.

I feel them slip and I stop to reposition my body for a moment. I’m in the middle of the river but all I see is that glittering gold and I will myself towards it, one step at a time. I cross the middle and I know I’m there, I reach the weaker current near the shore and step onto land; the sacred golden land. I scream with joy and throw my sticks onto the rocks.

I take out my camera and stop to look at the inner flap of the pack. I run my fingers over handwritten words in Latvian. It’s something about love.

I walk across the rolling plains and back in time. ‘How can this exist? How can this world exist?’ I expect to meet a group of hunters or see a herd of giant kangaroos. None appear. There’s no wildlife out here, only the occasional footprints of wombats.

Mountains surround me on all sides. It’s a calm and beautiful afternoon. I reach a point where energy rushes through the ground and into my body. ‘A sacred spot’, I whisper to myself. I’m directed off the track and to a quarry of green rock. I bend down to look at the tools and then stare at the perfect view across the plains. Herds of megafauna leap through the buttongrass.

A breath of wind carries a song.

As I move closer to the distant mountains the sky turns grey and pelts me with horizontal hailstones. My naked legs are scratched but my body’s protected and warm. The quartz track glows in the ambient light.

I run into the darkness. Torchlight guides me around a series of hills and into a soaking forest. There’s supposed to be a campsite somewhere. I’m becoming wetter and colder. I push through sharp branches and cutting grass. My foot slips on a log and I flip over like a tortoise. No injuries. I right myself and stagger to my feet. I need to find a site soon. I come to some bare hills. Mountains form a dark horizon through the drizzle.

I’m prone and my tent’s on a yabby mound.

A lightning storm catches me as I move to the side of the hill. Metallic winds blast off the roof of my tent.

Eight hours of thunder, lightning, powerful wind gusts, rain and hail… all is well.

Day Nine

It’s a calm day. Rain and rainbows. My appetite vanishes and my leg swells from leech bites . I wade straight into a raging river and almost get sucked off the other side. I cry out ‘no!’ and wrench myself free of the water’s grasp.

Spring River. My plan was to camp next to it but a maze of dead-end paths through a swamp traps me at a flooded tributary. Darkness is coming. I head back along the track and pitch my tent on a sodden slope.

Day Ten

At first light I wade across the deep channel of water. I track the Spring River, following its course to the sea. I come to a campsite in a sheltered forest and end up waist deep in a swamp again, trying to find the path. I spot a structure through the trees after wading through another bog. It’s a bridge. I stride across it and it leads straight into a flooded forest. The river has broken its banks. I wade into the water and it almost reaches my chest. Freezing. No path. I remember the map saying that it was off to the left. I t ry to push my way out of the submerged world but there’s no escape through the walls of cutting grass and scrub.

I clamber onto a fallen gum tree and almost stumble off. If I get jammed between the branches with my pack, I’ll be trapped under the black water.

A pink ribbon leads me back towards the flooded river. The river and the forest are one. More ribbons lead into even deeper water. I lose my footing and struggle before catching something beneath me and calming myself. It was well over my head. After half an hour I escape back onto boggy land. I slosh through mud then up along ridges and down across more creeks. The river leads to a mossy forest with tall-dripping trees. This is where I’ll camp. I take off my pack and search for water.

It was a harrowing day. I want to cry.

No one will come.

Day Eleven

It rains all night. The creek where I got water was knee deep yesterday. It’s up to my neck today. I use a fallen tree to cross. I’m still trapped on the other side by cutting grass next to the river and another tributary. I try to cross it to get back to the path and sink up to my chest. All my clothes get wet. A girl’s voice calls through the c reaking trees. I call out; ‘Hello?’

A hundred leeches. A thousand scratches across my legs and there’s still swelling around my knee.

Lightning storms hit me as I cross flooded creeks and exposed hills.

The West Wind blows me over then picks me up on my way to the narrows of Bathurst Harbour.

An eagle glides past as a thunderstorm rolls in. Black cockatoos screech. The harbour and the narrows appear. The current is up and so is the wind. Patches of blue sky break through as the light begins to dwindle.

It’s a 400 metre crossing. An entire bay sucks through this channel. Salt on one side, fresh on the other. There’s an upside-down rowboat. I’m supposed to row it across to the other side then hook up another one to bring back for the next person then go a third time to reach the other side and continue my journey.

I winch the boat in and struggle but make it across in about 12 minutes. I hook up the other boat. The wind catches me and I drift towards the open ocean. I fight for 20 minutes. I have to tow this thing back. I get sucked around the other end of the point. I yell out but calm myself and focus on making smooth strokes.

I make it back and race to pack up all my gear in the fading light.

It’s calm out there but darkness is coming. I want to go but I should wait. I set up my tent again. I should make it to Melaleuca tomorrow.

A flash of lighting and rumbling thunder.

Day Twelve

A calm night. Dawn. The water looks still. As the sun comes up the wind lifts and throws down a shower. The swelling in my leg has subsided.

Under light rain I push the boat out into the bay. I concentrate on my strokes and ma ke my way to the other slip. I start to drag the boat up without thinking to remove my pack. I flip the boat over and tie up the oars in the glow of the rising sun.

Twelve days of lightning storms, freezing rivers, no fire and no human contact. I’m about half-way there.

Markers lead to a bay, a creek, then a dead end. I spend an hour looking for the path. A pademelon hops away. It’s the first mammal I’ve seen.

I forget about the markers and notice a ridgeline. I feel like the track must be there. I find it and continue over the hills to Melaleuca.

I slog through buttongrass and spot a speedboat gliding under patches of sunlight. Humans.

The flatness of the buttongrass plain lets me move at a fast, meditative pace.

A short rest for some salt, nuts and water. Mt Rugby dances in the afternoon clou ds. I’m sure I’ll make it by four.

I round the next corner and spot the tail of a Par Avion plane. Melaleuca.

The plane takes off as I arrive and I wave. It’s exactly 4pm. I walk over to the huts and see a person.

Joseph makes a wonderful meal of pasta and shares his array of food with me.

He boils me water to wash my feet and gives me more Band-Aids. He tells me about cycling with his dog for thousands kilometres up and down Australia. I sleep well, warm and full. 

Day Thirteen

A calm night becomes a clear day with a gentle sunrise. Joseph shares his hot Milo and Coco Pops. We talk for a while then I prepare to leave. I hobble off. My feet think that the journey’s over. Joseph says that there’s a plane flying in at ten. I could catch it back to Hobart. I wish that my feet were better, but I hobble on.

I’m r acing the sun to get across the duckboards. A helicopter flies in and then the 10am plane. I want to keep heading to the coast. I have to see the coast. Joseph’s other gifts of a salami stick and muesli bars make good fuel for walking. I collect water from a small stream. I’m drinking the energy of the mountains and the forests.

Waves. Cox Bight appears. I hobble on as the sun makes its shallow winter arc across the sky. My body can do it.

I make it to the campsite at around 4pm, after seven hours of walking. It was supposed to take three or four.

I set up my tent just behind a beach. The great blue moon rises over the Ironbound Range. It’s the first day without a drop of rain since I began. It seems like I’m on the home straight.

These hard shoes are destroying my feet.

Day Fourteen

Morning on a pink beach with the birds and waves.

The water is warm. I walk too far along the beach and have to turn back to find the track. It leads into the hills over a new catwalk. My feet recover with thin socks and loose laces.

I look at the Louisa River in the distance, running along the foothills of the Ironbound Range.

I make good time along the path. The rivers are down because there’s been no rain for two days.

I ford the Louisa River as it yanks and twists my legs. It’s up to my knees but slow-moving.

I’m in a giant forest, something from another time. This is Gondwana.

As the sun sinks I continue into the foothills of the Ironbound Range. I need to cross the mountains tomorrow.

Day Fifteen

Storms blast the tent from both sides. I didn’t put a peg in deep enough so water comes in.

I rise at 4am. The storm’s dropped off when I leave at 6:15. I make my way to the summit under a thick mist and constant sprinkle of rain. Hail cuts into me as I reach the top.

I want some water but it takes two hands just to undo a clip. The cold is sucking the power out of my arms.

I have to get down the other side. Three hours of stumbling down a river of freezing water. I eat bee pollen and a whole block of chocolate on the run. I have to make it to Deadman’s Bay. I straddle a log and my feet splay out with the weight of my pack. I slam down onto my crotch and I swing around the bottom of the log before dropping off as I hang upside-down. I shout to the forest; ‘You can’t be serious!’

I find a pair of sunglasses on the track.

I kept descending until the path becomes a traverse and I reach an impassable creek that’s exploding with water. I find a way across upstream. The weight of my pack makes the log crack and groan.

I run until I hit the coast, then keep running until I reach Deadman’s Bay. Another raging creek blocks my journey. That’s far enough for today . I’m hypothermic after eight hours in the rain. I use my palms to undo the buckles on my pack. I set up my tent and take three hours to warm up. Cockle Creek should be four days away.

Day Sixteen

I wake at 4am. Rain and powerful winds came but all is calm now. In the darkness, I cross the river that runs into the beach. The path leads across buttongrass plains and through a forest. A rope dangles over a creek. I’m tired. I keep eating chocolate and pollen for energy. I walk along a small beach as the sun rises then I’m back in the fores t and skirting cliffs. I’m struggling up the hills.

Prion Beach. I’m walking on the edge of grey clouds and staring at what’s washed up; a Portuguese man o’ war, the tentacle of a giant squid.

I reach a boat crossing. I tip the water out, row across then hook up the other boat. The wind blows me 300 metres into the lagoon.

I drop the towed boat off on the original side then start on my final run. I meet the only other two people on the track. I return the guy’s glasses. The women has twisted her ankle and they have to turn back. They tell me that the track’s impassable ahead.

A wedge-tailed eagle glides over.

A thick rope leads off a drop and down a sand dune into Milford Creek. I grab on, lean back and burn my hands as the rope slips through my fingers and I thump onto my back. I check my palms, they’re okay. The creek is more like a river . I go upstream to find a way across. I come back down and try to go straight across with a stick, tapping out the depth. It’s only waist deep. I rejoice then realise what the guy was talking about.

I’m supposed to go along the bottom of the dunes but the tangled bushes have grown down to the water which is well over head. There’s no way through without a machete.

I go back up Milford Creek and climb a steep bank, forcing my way through branches and a thick wall of cutting grass. The tangle gives way to a silent world of beautiful trees and manferns stuck in time. A tree and a manfern have become one. Another tree feels as if it’s not from here. It seems to be from another time and place, somewhere tropical. I take out my compass to check the bearings on my intuition. A beautiful eucalyptus guards the top of a hill. It’s a sentinel to the ancient land. The bracken ferns are crowd over me. Sunlight bounces off a cliff I recogn ise. I let the pack and gravity pull me over the trees on a steep, downward slope.

After two hours I pop onto the dune near the far end of the beach. I slide down on my back and walk the last section in ankle-deep water.

I’m tired but still on my way home. 

Day Seventeen

I wake at 4am to a clear and silent night and walk over buttongrass plains. It’s a beautiful moonlit morning with darting birds. I struggle for energy as I walk through a forest of great gums. I crush eucalyptus leaves and inhale. I descend into Surprise Bay. My toe’s hurting but cool water at the end of the bay soothes my feet.

I struggle to climb. Maybe I need more water? Now it’s Granite Beach and a delicate dance over rocks. I climb a waterfall next to pounding surf to reach the campsite. Someone’s made hammocks from flotsam. I lay down for a few minutes in the afternoon sun. My target has been acquired. I’ll reach South Cape Rivulet tomorrow.

I will get across the other side.

Day Eighteen

A sky full of stars falls to Earth as light rain. I leave under torchlight and make my way up a steep hill. My Achilles tendons struggle to fire. I grab two walking sticks from the ground and my power returns.

It’s a sea of mud, a moss forest and a maze of roots. A rainbow reaches across the ocean. I go smoothly down the hill until I hit some duckboards. An inchman. I reach a few more smaller hills on a good track. I weave through fallen trees in lush forest then charge down another gentle descent.

At last, I meet the great ocean and South Cape Rivulet. I try to cross it a couple of times but waves come blasting up from the sea and the current has formed a deep channel. The other side is only metres away. It’s too dangerous and my body is burning from the cold. I need a clear night and low tide… then I’ll be able to go home.

Day Nineteen

A sprinkle of rain passes in the darkness. I check the water just after six. It’s down much further. I’m going to make my run at 7:30, when it’s light.

I pack everything in plastic bags. The tide seems to be coming up. I wade out with a stick. There’s a strong current and it’s too deep to cross. I wait for the waves to go out and run to where the river meets the rolling sea. It comes up to my ankles.

I follow a sandbar. It’s up to my shins. Wet sand. I am there. I run to the other side and cry out. I’ve passed the final obstacle.

The gates to the kingdom close behind me.

Plants undulate in a gentle breeze that twists through the lush forest on the far side. Somewhere there’s singing. I stare back at the trees and see dad and a hundred others waving goodbye. Black cockatoos screech from the tops of the giant gums and fly into the heart of the Ironbounds.

Tears well in my eyes. I eat the last of my chocolate. I’m going home. I sing, ‘I’m going home, I’m going home.’

I stride along the cool sand with my walking sticks on a grey morning and into the headlands past Lion Rock. A male lyre bird with fantastic plumage struts in front of me.

I pass giant stumps with notches cut into them. A boot wash marks the modern world and the end of the trail.

I lay down my walking sticks.

I stare for a moment back into 1642. The air fills with the mist of hundreds of spouting whales at Cockle Creek.

The sky clears and a person stands on this most southern street of Australia looking at his phone. No reception. I try to speak but my words are garbled. He’s with his partner. The couple give me a banana, a tangerine and some coins for the phone.

I walk to a wooden shelter and make the call.

Horrifying. Beautiful. Necessary.

Years ago, dad pointed to the other side of South Cape Rivulet and told me of a journey. At 7:33am this morning that journey became a part of me.

I thought back to the shores where it all began and to little pink Pedder slumbering under her cool tannin blanket. Mt. Anne kept trying to get her to come out and play with the sunbeams and clouds.

I thought about the gate o f the Crossing River, where the only key was patience. I thought about the icy waters and wild storms. At every black body of water I faced a primal fear. I almost drowned as a child because dad was off in some other world.

How did I even make it here?

I sat down in the wooden shelter and dug around in the pack for a change of clothes. My fingers hit one of dad’s white pegs and I gazed at it. I remembered using these when we slept out in the wilderness. Dad said that the harder the West Wind blew, the tighter the tent would hug the ground.

I closed the pack and ran my fingers over the words on the inner flap again:

“mīlestība ir mūžīga”

Love is eternal.