A Wet Walk

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Stephen Whiteside
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A Wet Walk

Post by Stephen Whiteside » Fri Jun 03, 2011 11:20 pm

Here's a story that I wrote about forty years ago. It's been sitting in my bookshelf until now. I reckon it holds up reasonably well.

A Wet Walk

© Stephen Whiteside

We lie side by side in our sleeping bags. I’m awake, I guess, but trying to convince myself I’m asleep. I’m warm, but only just - afraid to move, because then I’ll disturb what seems to be a very fragile equilibrium. It’s daylight. I lie on my side with my arms crossed, my head resting on a sleeping bag cover full of jeans and jumpers and look across at Tom in his sleeping bag. Without moving my head, I roll my eyes up till I’m looking at the top of the tent, only two feet away. The rain seems to have stopped. The rain that woke me in the darkness but couldn’t keep me awake for long. It’s lucky we dug the trench and brought our packs inside. It’s good to be dry.

I think Tom’s awake, too, but I pretend I’m still asleep. The silence is broken by his sleeping bag being unzipped. I close my eyes, but I know he’ll probably guess I’m awake - I can feel my eyelids twitching, which sleeping eyelids just don’t do. I hear him dress and put on his boots. All this he does in silence. Soon I hear him stomping around outside, rubbing his hands and blowing on them.

Still I lie inside. There’s really no hurry. I hear twigs snapping - there might be a fire going soon.

“How’d you sleep?” I say, not very loudly. Sound travels easily through the wall of a tent.

“Not bad,” he answers. “Rain wake you up?”

“Yeah. Loud, wasn’t it!”

Pause.

“Bloody cold out here!” he says.

“Not much better in here.”

Another silence.

“I love it when it’s really cold,” I say.

“Yeah, I can see that,” he laughs.

“No, really, it’s beautiful walking along on cold clear mornings, with your hands blue, and breath streaming in front of your face.”

“Wait till you start. It sounds fine from the inside of a sleeping bag.”

I chuckle. Of course he’s right. But what does it matter? I want to make the most of this wonderful calm. Not just the peace of the bush - the peace of our friendship also. It’s wonderful to lie here, with a good friend outside, and no-one to judge me except myself. I know Tom’s not judging me.

“But isn’t it great,” I say, “to be cold, really cold, but coping with it quite well, knowing it won’t get any worse, and pleased with yourself for not being angry or sorry for yourself.”

No comment from Tom. No comment needed. Here I am doing all the talking while he’s doing all the doing. But I know he doesn’t mind. It’s just as often the other way round.

Actually, he’s been really cheerful the last couple of days. Tom tends to run smack into a ‘down’ and when he’s down, he’s really sunk. I can usually see one coming and swerve and miss the worst of it, just getting caught in the outer edges. But he really goes in. I don’t know if he’s blind, or unable to turn, or just plain masochistic. Actually, I know he’s not blind. Beyond that I’m not sure at all.

I hop out of my sleeping bag and dress quickly. It’s really freezing. I step outside and look at the grass - covered in frost. The logs lying around in the nearby bush are also frosty, the trunks of the trees are black and damp, and the leaves are glistening. The only sound is the steady dripping from the trees, and already a dozen drops have landed in my hair. I stand arms crossed, warming my hands between my arms and my body.

“Do you reckon it will rain today?”

Tom laughs and says nothing. But it’s a hearty laugh - he’s picked up my message, which was really - “There’s no way it won’t rain today” - a statement, not a question, and hence no need for an answer. And why does he laugh? Because it’s good not to be alone when you’re cold in the middle of the bush twenty miles from anywhere, because when you’re not alone it doesn’t matter if you get wet, provided you have the right attitude, and because of all that he’s feeling good. And he’s probably laughing at the circuitous route I took to make my point, too. Plenty of reasons to laugh. Except that the fire won’t light, and it’s only OK to be walking in the rain if you started the day with a hot cup of coffee. Otherwise it can be pretty depressing. Almost as depressing as going to bed at night after a cold meal and no campfire - nothing is more depressing than that. So we’re keen to light that fire. Neither of us has brought a little gas stove. A cup of coffee heated that way is certainly better than nothing, but it isn’t nearly as good as one cooked on an open fire. And if you’ve got a gas stove you don’t try very hard to light a fire - especially if the wood is wet. So a lot of the potential is lost. On the other hand, if you haven’t got a gas stove you can wind up bloody miserable. So Tom’s pretty keen to get that fire going.

It’s good that we found a stream to camp by. A camp with water rationing is almost as lifeless as a camp with no fire. I take the billy down to the stream and fill it. The water is high and the banks are sodden and slippery so I have to be very careful not to fall in. Starting a day’s walking with wet feet is almost as depressing as a camp with no water.

I climb back up the bank carefully and when I get back my hands are blue and stinging from the cold water that splashed onto them. They’re not aching, it’s just a sting like a thin shell on the outside. Tom is concentrating very hard - working with tiny bits of wood and some dry toilet paper that’s been in our packs overnight. He’s using what he hopes are the driest twigs, but when it’s this cold, dry and cold feels the same as wet and cold - just cold. He’s down on all fours blowing gently, and I’ll bet his hands and knees are starting to feel that frosty grass. There’s no way to dry the tent out. It would be best to leave it up for an hour or so, but it’s too cold to wait around - better to start walking as soon as possible. So I take it down and pack it wet. I roll my sleeping bag and roll Tom’s and put them in the tops of our packs, then fold the groundsheet. I get out the cups of coffee, instant milk, sugar, cereal bowls, spoons and Muesli. The Muesli has instant milk in it, so I only need to add water. It’s not one of my favourites, but it sort of gives you something to work against when you start walking. Tom is now starting to get a crackle and a tongue of flame between the woodchips, and he’s concentrating very hard. I pack lunch in the back pocket of my pack and go back to the creek to fill the water bottles - we’ll quite possibly be warm and thirsty after two hours hiking. The fire is going OK now, and I hand him the billy, and tell him I’ll look after it if he wants to east his Muesli and get his mittens. I think he’s really enjoying himself - he gets a real kick out of small achievements under difficult circumstances. Despite what I was saying about the importance of a hot cup of coffee, I would have given up on that fire a long time ago. Yes, I’d say he was feeling pretty pleased with himself just now. Not in a smug way, but just feeling really good inside. His hands are so cold he puts his mittens on before pouring the water into the Muesli. Now, that’s a risk. It’s a risk, and it doesn’t come off - he spills the water over his gloves. But he curses and laughs. That’s the beauty of woollen mittens - even when they’re wet they’re extremely warm. It still isn’t a real blaze and we don’t wait for the water to boil, but just have a warm cup of coffee. Actually, if it’s too hot it isn’t so good - it burns, but doesn’t make you feel any warmer. Still I would have preferred it a bit hotter this time, but it was so jolly cold waiting for it! Well, we throw down the coffee and pour the rest of the water into the fire, swill our cups and bowls in the creek, pack them in, throw on our packs, mittens and balaclavas and head off.

We follow the old four wheel drive tracks which wind monotonously through the trees. I don’t think we’ll get any views at all on this hike, but I don’t mind. There’s a real charm to being hemmed in by tall trees, the unchanging bush has a hypnotic, tranquillising effect, especially when it’s so clear and still. Views are superb, but so are thick forests. It’s just a matter of making the most of what you’ve got, I guess. There’s no sign of life except for a few birds and an occasional wombat hole. I don’t know anything about birds. Tom knows a little and makes a few guesses as to what they are. I have no idea whether he is right or wrong, but I like to listen to his suggestions. I don’t think he’s too worried about whether he‘s right or wrong either. It’s too cold for snakes and I doubt if we’ll see any wallabies. A kookaburra is a good chance, I guess. They’re terrific. It’s amazing how a kookaburra can raise your spirits. Well, I don’t need one just now. If I’m only going to see one today, I’d rather keep it till I need it - it’s sure to start raining soon. Right now this cold air is wonderful!

Well, it only lasts half an hour. Down it comes. Great big drops, but in ten seconds it’s roaring. For the next ten minutes I enjoy it. The isolation is just fantastic, the sense of independence - I revel in it. Another ten minutes and I’m getting a bit fed up. Another ten minutes and I’m soaked to the skin. We both stop and look at each other, twenty miles from anywhere. It takes a few moments to sink in. The first reaction is to pretend I’m ten years younger and Tom is twenty years older, that Tom is Dad and Dad equals the answer to all problems so why worry. Then I remember that Tom’s Tom and I’m no longer 12 years old and if we don’t help ourselves then nobody else will. We both look at each other with hopeless sort of, ‘What do we do now?” expressions. I come up with the first stroke of brilliance.

“This is crazy.” (I have to shout above the roar of the rain.)

“Yeah,” he shouts back, smiling. I feel better already - he’s smiling. Thanks Tom, I needed that.

“We’d better go back to last night’s campsite - at least we’ve got a trench.” He nods and we turn back.

We arrive back shaking and cold, but no colder than when we decided to turn back, and we’re thinking quite positively, and I can’t help wondering if maybe we could have gone on after all. But this is the first time either of us have hiked in really pouring rain, and we weren’t to know how it would go. Even if one of us HAD been in this situation before, and had told the other that it wouldn’t get worse, the other wouldn’t have believed him. Ah well, maybe I’ll know better next time. And then again, maybe I won’t.

The trench is overflowing - we dug it in poor light last night, and it was a bit of a rushed job. We’ll have to deepen it. I am carrying the little spade and I set to work. Tom doesn’t want to freeze up so he starts dredging with his boots. It isn’t much fun re-erecting the tent, but we’re lucky it’s not windy. That would be very difficult. I’m rather surprised how contented I feel, shivering in that rain. Contented and happy. How odd. We set up the tent, throw in the groundsheet and spread it out and throw in the packs and then climb in ourselves. We change into dry clothes and hop back into our sleeping bags. We don’t say much. This is too wet for kookaburras, but I still don’t need one. I curl up in my sleeping bag. We don’t seem to have achieved very much so far today.
Stephen Whiteside, Australian Poet and Writer
http://www.stephenwhiteside.com.au

Neville Briggs
Posts: 6946
Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 12:08 pm
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Re: A Wet Walk

Post by Neville Briggs » Sat Jun 04, 2011 7:19 pm

As they say...you don't have to be mad, but it helps :roll: :geek:
Neville
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.

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