Hello 2021!
Also fitting, given the year that has just gone, was the manner in which we arrived at that moment of peace. A real brouhaha.
It was the first night of our first ever, family multi-day hike. It was the third leg of a Christmas trip that took in car-camping, Christmas celebrations on the family farm and aforementioned hike. Packing for it all had been a nightmare and involved baking special treats for Christmas, packaging up entirely different food for camping, wrapping gifts, arguing over gifts, attempting to print Christmas cards (yours should be in the post, any day now) and sorting out the different gear that each of those three legs required.
Our first stop was Ganguddy, a beautiful spot in Wollemi National Park where we camped with my brother and his family for a week.
"This place is magic!" Mountain Dad repeatedly exclaimed, in awe of the interesting paddling, curious rock massifs and abundant wildlife. We listened to a lyre bird roll through a series of calls and sounds and saw a platypus slip off a rock into the waters. We nearly lost an entire batch of homemade cookies to possums and watched a wombat waddle down a road. We frolicked and played, the Newluks way, with my nephews and their parents. In the dirt, on the rocks, round the campfire.
Too soon, we left them at Ganguddy to head to Moonbah, outside Condobolin. We took a one-night stopover in Dubbo, in order to meet up with my cousin and her partner, so we could all go to the Western Plains Zoo. It was strangely absurd to be in rural Australia, our group comprising of somewhat-locals, a handful of Canadians and one Chilean, all touring around a zoo that features large African animals. We saw elephants, giraffes and tigers, yet the lemurs were our favourite.
Christmas at Moonbah was a cacophony of excess; of noise, heat, food, booze and family. There were 25 of us in total (Baby Reu counts, though not yet 6 months old) and it was a blur of action and laughter, as only the Menzies know how. I have so many memories of being there as a kid, that it fills my heart to share it with my own mountain-kids and have them create their own mental souvenirs. We last spent Christmas on the farm when Lox was a babe in arms, not yet 6 months old. This time round, we stayed a week and immersed ourselves in the full gambit of experiences. We buzzed around on the four-wheelers (Lox can drive one on his own, without an adult on board; slightly scary and slightly thrilling to see). We went yabbying in a dam and our Little Laide was so committed she took off her dress to really get in the mud and rode home, muddy and happy, on a four wheeler in her knickers. That were inside out.
We hiked a nearby rocky outcrop, twice, for Mountain Dad and I. We swam in the pool. We watched a python slither through the rafters of the verandah. We watched the cricket. We watched Mountain Dad slowly navigate a tractor to fill the deep ruts in the paddock where he bogged a truck at harvest time. We watched, beers in hands, as my Uncle patiently talked Shea through the operation of the tractor, via radio. We watched as my Uncle switched places with Shea for the finishing touches of the job, and masterfully and speedily completed what had taken Mountain Dad a good 45 minutes to near-complete. We swapped gifts and banter. Ate prawns and oysters at a Christmas table laden with salads and cold meats.
Too soon, we left them at Moonbah to head to Canberra to stay with my cousin for a couple of nights, on the way to the trail head of our hike. We had given ourselves a day there to stage what came next, our first family multi-day hike. Unsupported. In the Australian Alps. Having not really prepared ourselves at all. And not really knowing exactly to which trail we would head.
You may be unsurprised to learn that here is where the brouhaha began. Our day in Canberra saw Lox grow increasingly lethargic, and cold, though he felt hot, and eventually projectile vomited across the foyer of the National Museum of Australia. Having whisked him off to the bathroom to clean him up, while notifying a staff person in passing of the mess we were leaving behind, I attempted to hurry him back to Shea and Adelaide. My shamefaced head was down as we hustled past the scene of the crime. Pale faced Lox gazed frankly at the cleaner, who was giving the finishing swishes of her mop to the floor, then looked up at me and remarked that we should really go over there and say thank you and sorry. I marvelled that I was being taught manners and common courtesy, by my seven year old. We went and expressed our gratitude.
The sickness of Lox was truly puzzling. We hadn't been anywhere public for a good two weeks and only around family that whole time. None of whom, were sick. Yet? I wondered, recalling the year we flew to Australia for Christmas when Adelaide was a babe in arms. A very ill babe in arms, who, unbeknownst to us, had a shockingly violent case of gastro that only became apparent after we'd passed her round the loving embrace of my entire family. The gosh-awful gastro was so bad that we took her to hospital. It was so virulent that we know of 13 people that she passed it on to.
Please, no, I whispered, as Lox lay in bed that afternoon, don't let us be the family of the plague once again.
Thus it was, with a sense of relief that we awoke the next day, what was meant to be our first day of hiking, to find that Lox had a hot, red, tightly swollen ankle. The never-daunted Mountain Dad loaded us and the packs into the station wagon and trundled us to Kosciuszko National Park. We arrived at lunchtime, with truly no idea of which trail to hike, but with the pressure of having to begin the hike that day as we needed to sleep in the backcountry. Due to the timing of our expedition, right between Christmas and New Years, in the mountain biking mecca of Australia, there were no campgrounds to which you could drive. All full. We had adapted for this by planning to simply drive to the National Park, figure out which trail we were to hike, buy the passes that day, head to the trailhead and then get hiking so we could be in the backcountry (where you can camp most anywhere; you are not obligated to stay in designated campgrounds) by dinner. Tall order? Maybe. But do-able.
Unless your youngest can't walk because his ankle is hurting him so much.
We sat outside the National Parks main office where you buy your passes and submit your trip intention form, eating our lunch in the carpark and fretting about what to do. We still didn't know exactly which trip we intended to do, and Lachlan's ankle was getting worse. Finally, we found a Doctor who would see him and she diagnosed a Staph infection. Requiring antibiotics. And no walking for at least 48 hours.
With nowhere to sleep that night and it now being after 4pm, I made calls to any campground within an hour of where we were, while trying to keep Adelaide calm and Lachlan's foot elevated. Mountain Dad had stalked off to buy the antibiotics which added extra challenge to our day as they came in a foam box the size of a car battery and had three gel-ice packs that were required to keep the antibiotics cool. Our first family multi-day hike, was not off to a great start.
But we rallied. Eventually. The first night we slept in the National Park, not at a campground, but tucked down a dirt road that was off another dirt road, high up in the mountains. Probably where you weren't meant to camp at all. We cooled our heels for another day, driving round to spectacular lookouts in the park, repeatedly prompting Lox to put his foot up. As the clock ticked to the 48 hour mark, we found our trailhead and began to prepare to hike. At 4:30 in the afternoon. Just as a thunderstorm hit.
It really wasn't the greatest start, but we made it a kilometre down the trail, and then found a lumpy but adequate campsite for the night. I was elated to realise that it was New Years Eve and we were camped so close to the car that I could hike back to get us a beer or two. And the pharmacist had provided me with the perfect little esky-cooler the size of a car battery.
Thus it was, that we ended 2020 on a wet and blustery evening, huddled under our tarp, drinking beer from our son's medicine esky-cooler. We didn't even bother to wait for 2021 to find us, wet and weary as we were.
However, as 2020 has demonstrated, from trying times can come moments of treasure. Our hike was fabulous. The delay caused by Lachlan's infection, meant that we had time to more wisely chose our route and so we settled on a short hike that took us to Cascade Hut. 10 kilometres from the road, it's a beautiful old stockman's hut in the high country of the Snowy Mountains. We camped next to the hut for a couple of nights, using our rest day to hike out in the alpine meadows nearby. We took two days to hike the 10 km back to the car, camping on our final night in what Mountain Dad deemed, 'a bold camp.' It was on the side of a hill, overlooking a vast valley where we could watch the brumbies graze. It was tucked under some gnarled Snow Gum's but completely exposed to the weather. Fortunately, though we could hear thunder and see lightning over Mount Kosciuszko, it didn't bite us that night. We could sit and absorb the grandeur and reflect upon the slow beginning in the hiking chapter of our family story. I was most definitely the weak link, shocked at how hard my body found the physical challenge. I stubbornly refused Mountain Dad's offer to leave my pack for him to hike back to get later. The Mountain Kids were not the enthusiastic goats we might have hoped they'd be, but as usual, were game and plodded along, spurred onwards by copious amounts of lollies. Undaunted by the challenge, we're already planning our next hike.
By the grace of 2021, we aspire for more.
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