Courage, no regrets

(Fuck you, Mt Cook with an ‘e’)

After a heartbreak, I’ve been known to flee to the wilderness in search of perspective and to feel myself in the world again. I sometimes joke that I have to be especially careful about who I get into a relationship with, because I keep having to go on longer, and longer hikes. This walk is the longest I’ve attempted so far and like the others was inspired by heartbreak, but of the ideological kind, not romantic.

I don’t believe I’m a naive person so the realisation that few people in the space I was living and working had similar thoughts and aims for our profession as I do was hard hitting. The slow, eye-widening revelation that there are still many deep rooted limitations and expectations placed on my gender in the context of not only my industry, but in employment and social security in general, was horrific and I don’t know how to come to terms with it yet. I spent so long outside the country, untouched by these issues that it was truly a shock to rediscover them. I’m filled with a great deal of anger and also a sense of impotence, because no matter how much I shook my fists and said ‘this is wrong, we can do better’, nothing much seemed to happen. Expressionless faces remained still as I spoke of sexual harassment and toxicity in the workplace, lips twitched with understanding but ultimately remained silent. So, I’m out here to digest and recover. I’m out here to immerse myself in nature because there are very few things in it to judge you. For the most part nature doesn’t give a fuck what you do, what your gender is, what you look like, doesn’t care about any of it. It welcomes your respectful engagement and observation, it callously reveals your stupidity should you have it, and beyond that, is a great place to just be.

I began the trip in similar fashion to others, detangling too soon from the embrace of a lover and watching them dissolve into the night from the window of an Uber taking me on to an airport. There was nothing in the lead up to the trip, the getting there, the research, the fond farewells, that made me think for a second that the themes causing me trouble in daily life would persist on the trail.

Sadly they have. I’ve been ignored by male hikers who choose to speak to other men nearby instead of look me in the eye. I’ve been asked how much weight I intend to lose, by a man who assessed my body before he issued the question. Others have suggested that my career woes are clearly because I’m a woman, and have done so as if that would be a comforting thought. And it’s been pointed out frequently how brave I must be, to be doing this alone without a man. It’s not only my own experiences that are prompting me to write this. Other women I’ve encountered along the trip have told me tales of misogyny that you would hope just didn’t happen anymore. I know I’ve decided to walk through WA which is basically the East Texas of Australia, but I still expected more.

Throughout my years hiking I’ve met a lot of wonderful people, and although hiking culture isn’t as developed in Australia as it is in other countries, the last walk I did along the southern coast of Victoria was made all the more beautiful by those I met on the trail. I walked with queer couples, consoled a grieving man on the bank of the Glenelg, met an adventure therapist, and formed an intimate system for checking for leeches with a perfect stranger. Usually the people I come across are friendly and open minded, and we bond over our human vulnerabilities in nature. So I know there is hope and light out there, and perhaps I’ve just drawn the short straw on hiking companions this trip. One person I bumped into and complained about all this with, assured me that once I pass the ‘bogan fields’ of outer Perth, I should be fine. I hope they’re right, my heart needs space to heal.

There have been beautiful moments out here, despite all the quiet racism and very loud sexism. I’ve been pushed to my limits by the elements and each time have learned something new about my resolve to survive. I’ve also been able to take comfort in the indifference of nature and marvel at how life can exist unencumbered by humans on the tops of seemingly bare mountains. I have felt humbled to walk in moonlit forests, with frog song and animal squeaks as my soundtrack.

One day, about five days into the hike, I climbed a mountain called Mt Cooke. It seems necessary to summit a peak that bears your own name (even if the spelling is slightly off), so I did. It was a nightmare of a mountain. The best part was when I was near the summit chatting with a couple about the beautiful views of the Darling Ranges and they told me to ‘just ignore the coal mines’ in the distance.

Even though the patches of brown earth in the middle distance of a grey-green vista were harsh and ugly, the acknowledgment of their existence seemed important, so I gazed at them with as much awe as the rest of it. Maybe, I thought, the way to heal an atrocity is to see it and refuse to waver no matter how confronting it is. There’s certainly something beautiful in that kind of unflinching commitment to seeing reality.

The mountain was technically difficult to navigate. Black rock hid between mossy patches and its grippier, lighter counterpart, throwing up a risk of slipping and falling with the slightest misstep. I’d already fallen and sprained my ankle, and my fear of doing it again meant that I descended Mt Cooke painfully slowly. By the time I got to the bottom, I couldn’t wait to be off the side of that miserable peak and on my way to the comfort of my sleeping bag. I was hoping at least for a revelation about my roots or my name, but I got nothing. Only damp, creaky joints and a bad mood.

I’m currently recuperating from the ankle sprain in the small town of Dwellingup, about an hours drive south of Perth. With a population of less than 400, a limping hiker in a hot pink fleece has been quite exciting and for the most part I have been able to move easily among the wood chop contests and weatherboard cottages bearing pro-mining slogans. One kind townsperson I hitched a ride with had left a rifle and carton of bullets on the passenger seat. ‘Just push those aside love,’ he said as casually as if it was usual front seat rubbish, like snickers wrappers or old coffee cups. Another Dwellingup local, who is already well on the way to becoming a real friend, has been shuttling me from the caravan park to town whenever I need a resupply. It’s always an eventful trip because her 11-year old chihuahua Sarah rides up front and barks at Roos as we coast the wide, empty streets,  bordered by red mud. It’s an interesting town, and much like the attitudes I’ve encountered on this trip, is allowing me to understand perspectives outside my own, even if I disagree with them deeply. Like staring at an expanse of coal mines, looking these sentiments square in the face could be a useful thing for my long term healing and capacity to comprehend and communicate truths.

All of this does take courage though. This time around the courage has been directed to the act of surrendering to nature and circumstance, and then searching for creative ways onwards and out to a sunnier future. Before I left my routine life, I opened a letter that had been delivered to my house by mistake. It was addressed to a company called ‘Courage, no regrets’. I left the letter on my bench for days, mulling over whether I should open it or not. I was so curious about what could be inside, and became convinced it would have something to do with the philosophy of courage. In the end, the directive contained in the name printed on the envelope won out and I tore it open. I immediately regretted it because it was a sensitive legal document and I had no idea what to with it after that. Aside from that minor detail, that letter has become something of a mantra for me lately. To recover from the devastating reality of the newspaper, to figure out how to face those realities when I return, to step into the dark night with only a faint certainty that the direction I’m taking is true, to summit Mt Cook with an ‘e’, to fall in love again, it all takes courage, with no room for regrets.