Over This Backbone, page 2
I’m Faye. She stretches out a hand.
I shake it. Peta.
She raises an eyebrow.
Strong name.
With an A.
Ah, I like it. She smiles. Want a cuppa?
I glance back towards my little orange tent. Sure.
Faye stirs a spoonful of milk powder into the tea and tells me stories—snippets, really; she’s careful not to overshare or warn or lecture or guide. I appreciate this more than I can explain, and I lean into her openness and playful self-deprecation. She hands over three dirty pages, stapled together. Track updates that have been handwritten by many scrawling hands. The guidebook is becoming less relevant as the vegetation morphs and the animals cut new paths. Updates are important.
These notes have travelled this track four times now. You’ll be the fifth, Faye says.
She mentions the horses across the border, the stretches of Wilderness Area that are unpeopled and somewhat untracked. The Viking in the Victorian section—a place to note and fear. Tells me that she doesn’t know how to feel about it all ending tomorrow, the final slog. She sips her tea, sighs, smiles.
What about you? You’re twenty-three kilometres in. Well done.
Yes, pretty impressive, I know.
Walking solo?
Mmhmm. Lone wolf. I wanted to walk south because I wanted to walk home. It just felt right.
Is Gippsland home for you?
No, East Gippsland. Up near the border, on the coast.
They’re pretty much the same, aren’t they? East Gippy and Gippy?
Watch your tongue. You’d be lynched for that in the East.
She laughs. Fair enough. What’s the timeframe?
Forty-two days including a rest day or two, with a weekend in the middle for a festival. Home in time for Christmas. I’m keen to stick to the timeframe—mainly because I’ve had people tell me to leave myself more time, which I don’t need. Or they’ve told me to start with something smaller.
Should you have started with something smaller? she asks.
No way. I bristle, shift my squat.
Does their doubt fuel you? She half smiles.
Yes, my mouth spits before I can think. I pause and take a breath. There’s nothing like someone telling me I can’t do something to make me very determined to do it. I have this … friend. I think he’s worried about me. Says I’m brave, probably thinks I’m stupid. He asked to come with me, but I needed to do this alone.
My own words bring him barrelling back into my head and my stomach turns.
What about your parents? Faye asks.
Oh, they’re great. They’ve always supported my ridiculous plans, I say and wave her away. When I was in school, maybe Year 8, I decided that I’d paddleboard down the Snowy River from school to my house every day for a month. I know they both thought it was idiotic, but I tell you—they drove me and my paddleboard to school every single day until I’d had enough.
They sound amazing.
They are! The best part was that when I quit before the month was out, they didn’t push it. I think they just told me that they were proud. Never mentioned it again.
I chuckle to myself, eyes on the reeds. Faye nods with her lips curved into a smile.
But I am an adult now, I say, clearing my throat. It’s not really their job to look after me anymore.
That will always be their job, love. How old are you?
Nineteen.
I’m twenty-four, I lie, because I am sick of age being the impediment to trust—because I’ve never felt my own age.
That’s a fun age. She nods.
Do you have kids?
No. I didn’t … it didn’t happen for us. Adam and I met late—my husband. But I have nieces and nephews. And that’s what parents do, they look after you.
I guess so. Mine are both outdoor educators like me, so they get it. They’re my backup crew. They’ll do most of the food drops. Being involved brings them some peace of mind.
What do you mean by ‘outdoor education’?
Taking school kids into the bush and the mountains on expeditions. Though they’re mostly classroom-based these days—Dad’s a principal.
And this is what you do for work as well?
Oh, kind of, I say. I’ve worked in the field over the last two years, was a hiking guide in the desert for the last few months. I’m about to go and study outdoor education because my music degree didn’t really work out for me.
She makes a noise of surprise. What instrument?
Classical trumpet, I grin. I much prefer singing and playing the guitar but I’m trained on the trumpet. I knew it wouldn’t be right but I thought I should give it a go rather than just follow blindly in my parents’ footsteps.
Are they worried about you? she asks. Being on the track alone?
Maybe. A little. I’m anaphylactic to jumping jack ants. That’s probably their biggest concern. I sip my tea.
No good.
I don’t have a great track record for avoiding the little fuckers. Had a few too many EpiPens in my time.
Faye scans my squatted position, the way I hover over the ground. She nods.
Hence why you don’t sit your arse down.
Yup. I’ll either be walking or sleeping—I don’t do sitting, I say.
She chuckles, then reaches behind her and rummages through her small domed tent until she finds a sheet of papery plastic which she ceremoniously wafts onto the dirt beside me and pats twice.
I sit, relieved.
Tyvek. Builders plastic. It’s waterproof and light as all hell, Faye says. She crinkles it between two fingers. Take it with you.
Why didn’t I think of this?
Nah, I couldn’t.
Honey, I’ll be back in my mansion eating a parma and chugging a beer by tomorrow night. I don’t need it. Take it—at least you’ll be able to sit down every now and again without risking death.
Alright, thanks. I smooth a hand over the tarp.
No worries. She rocks back on the chair thoughtfully. Your poor parents. There’re more ants than stones on this track. They’re right to be worried.
I drain the rest of my mug and don’t know what to say. The sky fades to a deep purple—orange cirrus clouds smear like brush strokes across the high rich canvas. Something’s coming. A whip bird snaps and we sit without comment.
October 2016
Worry was an emotion that made me curdle. Mum knew, but she had always been anxious so she’d trained herself not to express the concern lest I take it as a lack of faith.
I could always hear it when she choked back her worry because it came out as a feigned calm.
Is now a good time for you to be walking this track, Peet? she asked with a tight throat over the phone on the night I told both her and Dad about my plans. I was on loudspeaker. They were in the kitchen on the coast and I could hear the ocean and the thunk of a knife on a chopping board beneath their voices.
Why not, Mum? By the time I finish up here in the desert it’ll be walking season—plenty of water around the mountains, not too many storms, good temperature, low bushfire risk. I’ll have a couple of months before uni starts in Bendigo, and it’ll be a good chance to get even more experience under my belt before I start the outdoor education degree. Seems like the perfect time, I said.
Is there something shorter that you could start on? she asked tentatively, knowing that I’d snap. Someone you might go with?
I took a deep breath and stretched with my hands on the verandah rail of the staff house in Hawker. It was just down the road from the Station and the desert glowed with late afternoon. I hadn’t lived at home for almost two years—realistically, they had no say.
You know that I can do it, Mum, I said. I’ve just got to dive in. It’s the way I’ve always done life.
She laughed. I guess you’re right.
Do you have all of the maps? asked Dad.
Of course.
Emergency communications? Satellite phone, GPS tracker, EPIRB?
I’ll get them.
It’d be a good idea for you to set off a GPS location twice a day so that we know where you are. That way, if we don’t hear from you, we can take necessary action, he said.
That’s fine. I can do that. But I’m sure you won’t need to take action. I’ll be self-sufficient.
You never know. It’s good to plan contingencies and have the help if you need it, he said.
Good point, I say.
I won’t need help.
I’ve always wanted to walk that track, said Mum. Do you think I could come for a section?
Yeah, Mum. I’d like that.
Then there was a pause that was more descriptive than any of their conversation so far, weighty. A pause full of the worry that comes with bringing a human into the world and fearing the moment they’re taken from it.
I wanted to fill the silence. I wanted to tell them why I needed to do it, about the pervasive feeling that I was losing myself, that I’d been slipping through my own fingers for the last six months, since Ben had come into my life. That I’d run to the desert to try and find some of the strength and independence that had always sat at my core and sure, the desert and the job had given me some separation from him. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t impressive enough, or alone enough. It didn’t shake me, hurt me, or disappear me enough.
They knew that something wasn’t right with me but they didn’t know why and I couldn’t tell them because their worry made me curdle, crawled up my spine. I waited.
Dad punctured the pause, bringing the knife down onto the board.
Well, you’ve always been able to do whatever you put your mind to, my girl. This will be no exception.
In the next pause I waited for Mum’s anxiety to pour out. I clenched my fingers around the rail.
But she knew me too well—that I’d walk regardless of her fear; that it was better to join me than fight me.
We’ll do anything we can to help, she said.
Something in me settled, then we talked about the dog and last week’s storm swell.
By the time I leave Faye, it’s dark. I press the ‘OK’ button on my GPS tracker and watch the lights wink until it has sent. As agreed, I will set this off every time I reach my camp for the night.
I imagine my family, Mum and Dad on the coast, my brother, Otis, in the city, and that shared gush of relief as their phones light up with the pre-programmed message.
Safe and at camp. Nothing to report.
I think of Ben. I know I shouldn’t think of him but I can’t stop my mind tracing over the memory of him. I know I shouldn’t have included him in the pre-programmed messages, but I did anyway because I have convinced myself that these feelings for him are platonic.
There’s no reception on the Farm, so these check-ins will build up as text messages, and when he opens the GPS locations, when he has the time, when he’s back in town, he’ll pore over them with meticulous scrutiny. He’ll see that I can do this alone and do it well without him. My stomach twists again.
I’m hungry, I think, but I know this feeling and wonder why I lie to myself.
I’ve blown up my sleeping mat and unfolded the stove when I see the light in the distance. The kangaroos scatter. It’s dark now and I squint, but I can’t figure it out—a rattling, and Faye’s headtorch shining out towards it from the edge of her campsite. It’s too stable for a runner, too small for a car. The only noise a whirring tick.
Faye yells.
The light crosses the footbridge and Faye’s torch bobs towards it. Feet thump. There’s a comical collision, and I see the glint of a spoke and realise it’s a bike and that she has wrapped herself around the rider. The lights rock together above the reeds. There’s a crack and a laugh as a helmet smacks a headtorch. A deeper voice, rising and falling, lilting with excitement.
I hold my lighter in one hand and my pot in the other and try to figure out what has happened.
Hey, love, Faye calls to me from the road. Come back over here.
Why?
Forget about dinner. Adam brought us wine and a cheese board.
There are three pointed lines of thought that cut through my foggy stream of consciousness when I’m finally horizontal, dizzy from alcohol and dairy and dehydration, throbbing and relishing these new body pains.
The first: that in eighteen days I’ll be with Ben, but that I shouldn’t be glad for it if I know what’s good for me.
The second: that the desert nightmare, the sickening flashback that has lingered in my unconscious mind since the night it happened, better not come for me tonight. It has no place here, on this walk. This is mine only.
The third: that my feet may just be destroyed by my own boots and there is nothing I can do to stop this from happening because I cannot ask for help. I will not cheat.
39 km
The Cotter River gleams low and snake-like in the next valley. The sun is fierce and the day is still. I feel the sweat shimmy from my face to my chest and from the peak of my cap to the dirt each time I stop to yank a water bottle from the hip pocket.
I left before Faye and Adam had stirred in the still fog of the morning. I started with the brown jumper on and a belly heavy with porridge, parting my way through that sinking moist cold and the grazing roos. Felt like every inch of my foot was taped, but my toes were still butting against the rubber cap with each step. I gritted through the first hour until they numbed. Had peeled my jumper off when the light streaked in fingers through the eucalypts.
That river and the locked hut on its bank is a relief. Until this point the day has been long and undulating but glorious. My body hums with the waking bush and the roll of the range.
The hut is a white shack flanked by gleaming water tanks. It’s fenced in, pastoral—strikingly yard-like, surprisingly civilised. I wander around the outer walls and test the door, but can’t crack it. Find a spot on the grass instead.
My clothes come off on the far side of the river and I ease my feet into the cool water. Wince and swear as the bruised toes slip sidelong between slick stones and pinch. It’s shin deep, but I lie with my head tipped back and let myself turn hot from the cold.
I force myself to eat lunch against the constriction of my stomach and will the pack weight to lessen. Maybe if I eat enough wraps my feet won’t splay out so much, my shoulders won’t knot and scream, the feeling will return to my hips. This is irrational because the weight of this canvas pack and the barely functioning solar charger and the sheer number of heavy-duty dry bags and the heinously excessive quantities of food can’t be offset by wrap consumption alone. I know, already, that I have made mistakes in my planning. There are many long days that don’t factor in the elevation gain. There are too many meals, too many Vita-Weats, too much cheese. Far too much fresh food.
But there is no mistake that can’t be handled with a bit of grit.
I’m fine. I’m young, I’m strong, I’m fine.
I sit naked on the Tyvek sheet in the green bowl of the valley and let the sun dry my skin as I chew at sundried tomatoes. The air ripples with heat and I tip back onto my elbows to watch the soft rise and fall of my stomach, the dark tuft of hair below. The purple bruises on my hip bones and the breasts that slip towards my armpits, dead weight. I’m struck with self-loathing for a moment before I slap myself out of it.
Look what this body can do.
I get dressed and keep moving.
I’d always proclaimed to be fiercely uncaring about the opinions of others and proud of my own unconventionality. That pride made up a generous wedge of my personality. I played on it. Short and stocky and strong. Round faced and green eyed with skin that German brown; more orange than olive.
Until we moved from the mountains to the East Gippsland coast when I was ten and Otis was eleven, we spent hours tangling ourselves into the branches of snow gums. They became ships and houses. I fought when our parents told us we had to go—wrote poems about the twisted patchwork of the bark in defiance of our leaving, but it didn’t change anything.
The bushfires were an increasingly looming, choking presence in the summer. Both parents were in the CFA and they’d stayed to fight in 2003 while we were packed off to Melbourne with Oma. Dad was trapped in a burn-over up at Cobungra, wrapped in wool, gasping and hunkering in the warping heat of the truck, and when he survived they said they’d never do it again—risk leaving us alone in the world. So in 2006, when the embers spiralled down to my bare feet and to the dry, alpine lawn in Dinner Plain, they knew it was time to go.
I fought and cried yet the coast held different wonders.
Spent hours traipsing along the beach in search of bones or driftwood or stiff, bleached animals to adorn my bedroom bookshelves. Wrote stories of whales and seals, learned to surf and to fish. Somersaulted down dunes and let the sand coat my mouth. I ground it between my teeth because I liked the flavour but also because it made others react.
I wanted to ruffle people—the need to shake them was in my bones.
Head shaved at eleven. Boyish clothes for practicality. Necklaces made of coral or fan shells and plaited rope.
I leapt in when the primary school music program, which consisted of four students, needed a trumpeter. Learned quickly and hungered for bigger things.
High school couldn’t come fast enough, and when it did, the music program was my world. One of the guitarists in the jazz band was a thin, pale boy called Finn. He taught me to play the guitar and I learned to sing along with my strumming.
I became the concert band captain and lead trumpeter within the year.
There was a moment when I slipped into the mainstream at thirteen—cropped the public-school uniform, straightened my dyed hair to withered straw, pasted my face, made the state hockey team—and this moment caught the attention of the Jazz Band bassist at a twenty-four-hour fundraiser on the school oval. We’d propped ourselves up on the tray of his ute until two o’clock in the morning and picked at his guitar, and I’d ventured something about my strong trumpeter’s lips. He’d tipped me back into his swag and it wasn’t as exciting as it was hollow.
