Riverton to Colac Bay

There are ways to walk the trail
I hadn’t imagined. Thanks
to grandsons: use your poles to
Mario dance, vault up on
rocks, jump off again, use
tree roots to twirl 360
degrees, run off track to
investigate boulders, use wave-
smoothed rocks as a half-pipe for
the tech-deck always carried
in your pocket. Choose the deep
shingle to walk on instead
of taking the firmer path.
I stop under a ponga
tree to write instructions down.

Longwood Forest

When the long strand of bush lawyer
wrapped my face, hooked so slightly
my lips, I greeted the plant as one who
greeted me; touch in a forest where I am
the only one moving, all day today
and yesterday and the day before. I don’t know

this life, only the trees, who are silent too,
hung about with lichen and moss,
mud at their heels. I follow footsteps – who slipped,
who sank, skirt the dangers as far
as possible. When I fall, I fall safely, pack
holding my face to the ground:

hello bush, moss, stone. But not
mud, deep and viscous and sucking.
So, I am safe (wet, encrusted).  Darling,
I say to the orange marker. This way.
This way. I touch the trunks. In the dimming
forest, there is no more welcome

light than one that tells you: turn here,
turn here, straight ahead.

A 39 km day

There are no strangers in this hut
though I wish there were, someone
tall and loud, someone unfitter than
me, who yesterday walked fifteen
hours, the last two in darkness,
reading my way up the wrong path
by pebbles and rocks. How they
shone though the night was dark.
One star, a broken lamp.

And having taken the wrong road
entirely, I was at last
felled, lay like that on some unknown
damp hillside, yet knew enough
to take off wet boots, socks, pull on
dry ones, burrow into the
bag, wrapped in the tent, and ask
the sky not to rain.

It rained. Water fell from my
eyelids like tears. How long a night
is waiting for light – and then,
bird call, enough sky to pull on
wet boots, wet socks, roll wet tent,
wet bag in wet pack, retrace
my path, looking for the orange
markers, which, after an hour,
flare like small sunrises, until,
more lessons learned, I take the right
trail to Duggie’s Hut.

Duggies Hut   2.

Overnight it rained again.
I lay in my blue sleeping bag, socks,
gloves, hat (the fire out), pictured

the river rising. My only way out.
Phone set for six am to cross the icy
gush and boulders. But my foot

still swollen, water bag ruptured, night
light flat. In the dark, considering options. Forward
or back? You can turn back, Mum,

daughter Evie had told me. Another white
feather on the path yesterday, my
signs from Brian. And I did find

the hut, where I rest, rebuke the mouse,
rest, read. It is gentle here, all paths
covered in golden leaves, the stream

pouring. If Brian had survived
would we have tramped to a hut
such as this? The dilemma

to go forward or back, to cross
or not. He, being experienced,
would have made those decisions.

Even without a feather,
I have decided, this time,
to turn back.

Visitors

Just like I wished, two trampers
walk up to the hut – Martin from
Munich, Mike from Utah. There’s firewood
gathered, chopped, stacked, fire lit, and
time for stories, firewall and hot chocolate
(hut toddy). This would be enough, yet three
shepherds arrive and six dogs. Young
Charlie fills the door frame. He
shakes our hands, passes us cans of
Speights. All I know about Utah
is Charlie Kirk, he says.
The young men light cigarettes, the dogs,
with their collars and antennas,
mull about, run wide after pigs.
We say, Come in, the fire’s warm, but they
keep their boots on, their eyes on their receivers.
We join them and drink on the verandah.
They’re happy work’s finished now for
Christmas. They have hunting, and
heaps of beer.

The hut feels right with bunks filled,
food bags hanging from the rafter,
packs on the floor, boots and poles
outside. Mike broke both his poles
extricating his length from the mud.
The poles taped with splints; an old
spoon and fork flattened by a rock.
In the bush there are no power bank
top ups, no chances to call home, no
food restocks, no new laces, no pole
replacements but sometimes,
unexpectedly, cold beer.

Christmas Eve  

To take my pack in for repair
I lift out the pieces of my life (heart):
water treatment pills (to survive),
power bank (to find maps), dry
socks (for wet hillsides); unpacking
histories, small decisions, enough
nuts for a week. Tent. Last thing,
sleeping bag. Empty, the pack
breathes again. Full of fantasies
of tramping like a cartoon voice
bubble – have fun!
I unclip my trail pass. Is this significant?
Foot x-ray this morning. The pack and I
in need of repair. I limp in the throng
of Christmas shoppers on Shotover Street,
a tramper, deconstructed.

Sienna

I cannot leave yet. Eight
to ten days more rest, no more

than ten minutes walking.
The physio, Rion, is surprised

there are no broken bones, so
all’s good. Back to reading

What’s App – the vertiginous
track to Stody Hut, the Arrow

angry in the gorge, tree fall
taking out the markers.

My body knows these terms. First
Introduction, earth and I didn’t get off

to a great start. I had expected
a calmer character, someone who

agreed with everything I thought,
not up in my face like a warrior,

staunch, not backing down. On
persevering with our relationship

(because what can you do when you
are the only ones in this world)

one day there’s a smile, another,
a hand held out, some tacit

understanding between
the land and me. And then, a long

wide ridgeline of sienna
grass under a cobalt sky.