I got hazed last night. By Mila and Maggie. The situation occurred when I was waiting patiently for them to both (of course!) come out of the bathroom. They came out. I went in. They went to the school “sanitisation station” that was hanging directly off the door to the toilet. Next thing I heard “Oh my god! Could you imagine hiking alone! I can’t imagine anything worse! Hiking is awful! And doing it by yourself! Oh my god! You would have to be insane!”
I patiently listen. Then I say “You do know that this wall is just made of wood right? You know it’s not soundproof? You know I can hear everything you’re saying? Just wait there a minute and I’ll come out and discuss it all with you”.
“Oh. Right. Yes. No, all good. Sorry.” They leave. I can’t help but hope they are haunted by a possum again tonight.
Turns out it’s not them that’s haunted, but me. I wake up feeling queasy and headachey. I’ve never really been sick on the trail before (except for the beginning of my very first blog on the Great North Walk). I’m a little bit uneasy as I take a couple of aspirin. I hope this doesn’t last.
I wake up early. Very, very early. The school kids are up before dawn. I ascertain, because they certainly don’t keep their voices down on account of this, that this is their final day and they are headed off early to get to Bridgewater for breakfast. After what seems an age of torches shining directly into my tent, they tromp off. The final thing I hear is “Bridgewater, here we come”. God help Bridgewater.
I sleep for a little longer, but am still feeling a little bit off when I finally get up. Nothing to do but keep moving.
I start with a beach walk. Unlike the flying high walk of yesterday, this one is a trudge. Grey, windy, raining. And sink sand all the way. I’m trying to enjoy it, but the pain in my head, sickness in my belly and slight despair of the weather make it difficult.
I arrive at the end of the beach and alarmingly see the marker for the walk above me. Well and truly above me. Many metres above me. All this ferocious weather has obviously created ferocious waves. And these ferocious waves have undercut the dunes so that a sheer wall several metres high sits in front of me. I ponder it for a minute, pick the best spot I can and start to climb.
For those wondering what the hardest part of the walk was. This is it. I felt like the roadrunner running on the spot, the sand just cascading down. No way of getting a grip. I tried digging my poles in. Didn’t work. I got down on my knees and tried crawling up. Didn’t work. I feared falling backwards with the weight of my pack. I feared having a tonne of sand fall down on me. I feared not being able to get up this frigging thing. But inch by inch I climbed. Panting and completely out of breath when I made it to the top. That, my friends, was the hardest part of the walk.
I took a break and got my nerves back. Time to move on. And my day did improve. The headache and queasiness disappeared, and I was back up on the clifftops, which I love. I pass through stands of Eucalyptus diversifolia, or soap bush, little patches of abundant growth on an otherwise otherworldly landscape.
I reach Cape Nelson in time for lunch. It’s been incredibly windy on the cliffs again and so it is a huge relief to slide into the warmed cafe. I had been dreaming of a toasted sandwich and chips to settle my upset tummy, and there it was, right there on the menu. I felt like a winner. I sat, ate and read my book, bopping along to the 90’s tunes being belted out by the cafe staff. It was a lovely break.
I left on closing and quickly finished the additional few kilometres of the walk into Mallee Camp.
I’m alone tonight. It seems fitting for my final day. I don’t spend time reflecting. Just longingly enter my tent at about 7.30, snuggle into my lovely, warm bed and drift off to sleep. Nobody is here to disturb me at all.
