constanttrek

The joy of the journey

November 30th, 2010

Ever since I got back from my walk, I have seriously struggled to know how to fill my blog.  After all – it was begun as a way to share the trek, and for no other real reason.  When the trek stopped – well, what now?

My walk was always an intensely personal experience.  Adventure as a wider phenomenon, or as a community, interests  me very little; the journey of life does, however.  I think about writing pieces titled ‘the ten things I learned whilst walking’, etc, but it always feels forced, and trite.  Equally, my private life is just that, and although I don’t mind sharing parts of it, I would prefer not to slather my grotty linen all over the net.

So for three years I have been terribly slack, waiting for the next big adventure, when I could start blogging again.

But today I was going back through some of my photos.  The one that heads this entry was taken on the desert trek I did earlier this year, and I suddenly realized how powerful that experience was, and how it was the beginning of a new thought process, and I thought: well, I guess I don’t mind sharing that.

I have never spent a lot of time in the Australian desert.  I always wanted to, and as you probably know, hoped to do a long trek through it.  But it has always been the cultural as much as the physical that really engages me.  I guess a solo walk through the Australian desert seemed more of a physical challenge. Ultimately I was searching for something different, though I wasn’t sure what.

So when I was approached by an adventure program to do a trek in the Australian desert near William Creek with teenagers, I leaped at it.  It seemed like a chance to experience the magnificent Australian desert, but with the added bonus of being combined with a social dynamic that would be fascinating and engaging.

Here comes the first shock.

I was actually in the car and driving up the highway with the group before I realized that both the trip and its participants were entirely made up of members of the  Seventh Day Adventist church.

Now, I have never had a great deal to do with Christian groups on any level.  And all I knew about the “sevo’s” (I now am au fait with the lingo, people) was that they were a reasonably benign, well meaning lot.  Which, by the way, they are.

What I didn’t know is:

1.        They don’t drink;

2.       They don’t smoke; and

3.       They are vegetarian.

I’m sorry.  Did you get number three again?  Let me repeat it for you.  VEGETARIAN.  As in: they don’t eat animals.  No meat.  Lentil heaven.  Carb city.  NO MEAT.

Now, I am an ex teacher.  So no booze or fags was entirely expected (and, by the way, I took the opportunity to actually quit the fags whilst I walked and – to my amazement – I have stayed off them).  But no meat?  Are you serious?

In all the time I walked in the Sahara, meat was something both prized and savoured.  When we could afford to buy a goat or a sheep, we did.  When we could eat meat – we seriously did.  The thought of walking through a desert simply teeming with wild camel and kangaroo, all there for the happy traveler to munch at will, and being forbidden to do so, was excruciating.  I have no idea what I was thinking.  My stepdaughter at home in Melbourne was cracking herself laughing at my predicament when I called in with the tragic news.

But that aside.  I did gradually get accustomed to eating more bread and salad than ever in my life before, and I have to say, they did it so well it was relatively painless.  It took a little longer to absorb the fact that as a religion, Adventists actually believe in the literal word of the bible – it was a minor shock to hear comments such as: “look at the amazing sunset!  If you think that is beautiful – can you imagine what the second coming will look like?”

Well – no, as a matter of fact.  I can’t.

Talk about a cultural experience – thus far, it was up there with nomads and tents for novelty value.

And like any experience – very quickly, it became fascinating, and challenging.

This is Dan, one of the teachers on the walk.  He was simply one of the best teachers I have had the fortune to work with, and I was immensely grateful for his company and support on the walk.

Slightly skeptical about the attractions of the desert at the outset, after only a day, Dan was full of curiosity and enthusiasm. One of his more endearing traits was the habit of building rock cairns whenever we stopped.  The kids thought it hysterical, ribbing him for his habit at every opportunity, but I liked the ritual and loved the engagement with the physical world.  When things got difficult with the camp, kids, or other staff, it was Dan who had the diplomacy and judgement to smooth things over, and make them work.  I just loved his company.

For some of the kids, the walk was beyond simply difficult.  Like all of us, they have issues at home, or in their lives, that challenge them; walking leaves you nowhere to go to get away from those issues, and they had to tackle them head on.  I was constantly impressed and inspired by the determination and growth they showed.  And of course, I occasionally wanted to pick some of them up and shake them!

On one particular day we crossed a great salt pan, that stretched in seemingly endless, glorious space, for miles.  After all these years back in the busy places, it felt like heaven to me.  In my customary fashion I decided that if it felt important to me, then surely the kids must also stop to marvel (always a believer in sharing the joy, people) – so I made them emulate the Toyota ad.  Well, why not.  No better cure for blisters than landing on them hard.

But perhaps by far the greatest moment came for me at the end of the week two, when the second group walked in to the finish.

We came around a corner, and in the distance, I could see the first group crowded around the vehicles. There were balloons, and an obvious welcome party.  They stood on Landcruiser traybacks and car roofs, waving and hooting as we approached.

One of the girls began to cry.  All week, she had struggled at the rear of the group, fighting blisters and pain, and making every kilometer only through sheer will.  She asked that the group walk to the finish line together, with arms linked, nobody ahead or behind.

I dropped back, unwilling to foist the presence of an adult on an adolescent group.  But – teenagers are inevitably fair, just, and generous, I find -  they pulled me forward and linked arms with me. Together we walked toward the waiting party, and their welcoming calls of congratulation and approval.

I am glad I had sunglasses on.  What I hope none of the kids knew was that behind those glasses my eyes were full of tears, and my throat was so thick I couldn’t swallow.  All I could think as I walked toward the vehicles was:  at last!  At last, my ending…

When I walked the Sahara, through the hardest times  I would occasionally allow myself the treat of daring to imagine the end of the expedition.  It was a dangerous delight, and I rarely indulged, much like a rich cake of which it is wise to take only small bites.  I would allow myself a brief glimpse of what it might be like to walk to the edge of the Red Sea in Egypt, knowing I had traversed the whole continent.  I would imagine sinking to my knees on the shore, clutching handfuls of sand and raising my hands in grateful prayer, to the earth and the heavens.  I imagined how it would feel.

Sometimes I let my fantasy extend to who would be there to meet me; but most of the time I shied right away from that one.  I was too scared nobody would care enough to come, and that then I would have done all of this only to slink away to a nondescript hotel and try to find the funds to fly home.  More often, I would crack up at the thought of walking my camels to the Sheraton, handing them to the valet park attendant, and saying: be careful, the last time I parked here look what I got back…

And when it finally did end, there was none of that.  Nothing at all.  Just a hard landing, and a flight home; a lot of debt, and a numb and enduring sense of failure.

I had never realized that the lack of an ending had affected me so profoundly – but there it was.  The fact that all of these kids had just achieved something quite amazing was infinitely more satisfying than any ending I could have imagined, and in some way, far more powerful.  I felt as if I had put an old ghost to rest, in the richest way imaginable.  Seeing the sense of pride and achievement they had in themselves after only a week walking, and the changes the trek had wrought in adults and kids alike, gave me a feeling of deep contentment and pride.  More than anything – I had an ending at last.

Nearly six months later, I can see how that one moment began a positive process.  As I sit here planning new projects, and the melding of everyday life with my life of journeys, I see my own future, and the different roles I live.  And that in turn has helped me back to this blog.

I am not an adventurer.  Not really.  It is not the adventure itself that moves and shapes me, although I guess I do choose adventurous mediums to explore the world.  Climbing Everest holds about as much appeal for me as going without meat for an extended period (that is, most emphatically, NO appeal whatsoever).  Hanging the hairy adventurer tag around my neck feels more like an encumbrance than an accolade.

But I do understand the enormity and richness of what I have achieved.  I see clearly the great, almost immeasurable insight into the human condition my walk afforded me; and the mini walk I did with the kids reminded me of that rich tapestry, as if it were a microcosm of the macro I lived for so long.  Most of all, I can’t wait to walk new ground, and add to that experience, to live a new journey with the perspective the last few years have wrought.  Perhaps the most profound thing I have learned in this time is gratitude – I am more aware of the small riches life brings than I ever was before, and more grateful for them.

Most of all, I am grateful to anybody who is reading this, and particularly those who have been so kind as to write to me after reading my books.  I never cease to be moved and astonished by such generosity, and it means more than you know.

This last photograph was taken as we walked out one morning into the dawn.  I looked around and smelled the rich moist air, so different from the Sahara, so much more complex and wild – so very Australian.  The enormous desert sky glowed with the passionate reds that make my heart swell, and my mind forget any blister.  The children chattered around me, and one of them took my hand silently, and we walked awhile behind the others.

I thought to myself: if being able to do this is what ‘adventuring’ gave me, then I will be forever grateful.

And I am.

Thankyou to Chris Cowled for the photographs, and the brave and beautiful teenagers on the walk.  All my love to you as you journey through life.

Entry Filed under: trekking