Rememberance and Tattoos.....

So we made it – Kokoda was now in the history books and could be checked off the proverbial “bucket list”.  We were now being bused back to Port Moresby from Owers Corner, which by the way had seen much better days.  Not to mention that it was completely overloaded…..I mean we’re talking a bus that should seat 18, taking closer to 30.  My first inkling that it was going to be a scary ride back was that we couldn’t make it up the first hill out of the car park, without 8 or so guys having to jump off the bus as it rolled slowly back down the hill…not a great start.  A news headline flashed before my eyes – “Entire Kokoda Tour group killed after overloaded bus slides off mountain road”.    After a hair-raising ride in the bus, along a highly corrugated and somewhat narrow and ultra hair-pinned road we finally made it to the relative safety of the flat coastal plain that ran back toward Port Moresby

However, there was one more very important stop for us to make before we could call this trip done and that was a visit to the Bomana War Cemetery situated just outside Port Moresby.   The cemetery was set on a beautiful plot of land just off the main highway.   As we disembarked the bus into the heat, the first thing that hit me was the size and scale of the place – so many white marble headstones stretching far off into the distance.   All of Australia’s 3280 servicemen from the New Guinea campaign are in fact interned on this site, which is managed by the Commonwealth War Graves commission



Bomana War Cemetary - Port Moresby - Papua New Guinea

As I slowed walked down the aisles the sheer magnitude of the loss, not only to the Australians but also to the Japanese who they believe lost closer to 25,000 dead was overwhelming.  On more than one occasion I saw brothers interned next to each other; can you imagine being the recipient of not one but two telegrams telling you of the loss of your son or sons?   Such a devastating moment in a parent’s life - it was gut wrenching to even think about  

We sat silently under the shade of a large banyan tree at the north end of the cemetery, feeling the breeze wash over us as we surveyed the scene before us.  Beauty and sadness combined, and for me at least it put our accomplishments into perspective – we’d made it relatively unscathed (apart from the odd blister or two, or the twisted ankle, no-one had died or had been killed, there were no heroics or sacrifice required and there were definitely no telegrams going home to those loved ones we’d left behind for our adventure

Craig and I had often talked about it……   About a week before I was departing for our expedition he brought it up again as we were closing out our conversation on the phone “I’m getting a tattoo after the trip – are you in?”   I had thought about it before, but never in a truly serious way.  Why now I thought?  I’d never been attracted to tattoos before, although one of my brothers (James) has a number, and so do many of my nephews, but the more I thought about it the more it appealed to me in terms of commemorating the journey.   This would be a lasting memory of the trip and the adventure Craig and I had embarked on together for our dads…..what better way to remember  

So two days after we returned to Australia (quite a bit lighter in terms of weight – at least 10 pounds lower than what we started the trip with and sporting a rather dashing beard) we headed to Geelong to get our tattoos at the Inkspot.   Craig had also talked “Ralphy” into getting one as well, but as fate would have it he had to dash off to Melbourne to pick up his wife from the airport so he didn’t end up getting one – mate have you got it yet

My tattooist (LaDean) was the accomplished artist, young but clearly with a god given talent – check out her link.  I had thought about my tattoo quite a bit both before as well as during my trip, I wanted something that would highlight my journey in a powerful way, so when LaDean asked me about what I had in mind I knew exactly what I wanted - the rising sun emblem from the Australian military forces over the words “Kokoda 2011”.   I wanted it on my shoulder so that others could see it and it could serve as a conversation piece for me to tell the story of my adventure.  Craig wanted just the words and year on his calf.   And so it was with this that LaDean began walking me through the process and started outlining it on my right shoulder…..dissatisfied with the first try, she cleaned my shoulder and started again.   I admired her concentration and attention to detail as she finished the outline – it looked great

The tatto

Now for the tricky bit, for the next two hours (no it didn’t hurt – mainly because my shoulder muscle is pretty meaty and not too sensitive) she calmly talked to me as she worked on my shoulder.  Craig was lying down on the bench nearby as he got his calf tattooed.   The skin on the calf is extremely thin….as you can imagine is very sensitive so his hour long tattoo was just a tad more painful than mine…..okay, a lot more painful

What a tumultuous trip – surviving the Kokoda track and now a tattoo, what’s next 

Prologue

I want to thank you for being a part of my adventure; you’ve all been such gracious and wonderfully supportive readers of my blog.  In fact to date I’ve had over 3500 people from all corners of the globe read my blog in the last two months.  I’ve enjoyed it so much I think I’m going to keep writing, I’m sure the topics will be varied and somewhat amusing…..yes, a nice accompaniment to that latte on a Sunday morning - stay tuned

Wishing you all a Happy New Year

TW



The Arches

After ten months of preparing for my trip to Kokoda and three solid months of training with Horace and hiking around Toronto (completely flat and not recommended for tackling the likes of the Kokoda Track) here I was on the last day of the expedition.  These past eight days had been hard – no question, but also in many ways the essential ones that I needed to put my dad’s loss into some sort of perspective.   This trip gave me the chance to disconnect from my normal, hectic life and take a “time-out”, allowing me time to think and reflect on my life with him.   It was strange; it felt cleansing and pure allowing me to clear my head and to breathe for the first time since he had been diagnosed in August 2010.

I wasn’t alone in my thinking on this as my best mate Craig and I both felt that in many ways that this was an opportunity to put the loss of dads in some sort of perspective, I think Craig said it best when he said he “wanted to see if the same blood flowed through his veins” as his dad’s.   Did we have what it took to conquer the Kokoda Track, although I’m not sure anyone who takes this almighty challenge ever “conquers the Track” per see, it’s more like you assimilate into the track and over the eight days you become part of the track……you feel it, you live it, you breath it in all its intoxicating forms.

Perhaps it was partly the solitude of the jungle, possibly being with Craig and perhaps even partly being with a group of unknown guys (at the start of the trip anyway) each one changing the dynamic just enough to get you outside the norm.  

Salvation Army plaque at the Goldie River camp

I think it was put into perspective at our last break before the arches at Owers Corner and the end of the expedition.  Here we were at around noon, after hiking since 6:00 am and finally at the Goldie River.  This was the location on the track and where during 1942 the Salvation Army under the direction of Major Albert Moore set up his hut to give comfort to the troops headed out on the track, and to help and provide support for those wounded being carried back out by the Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels.

The Goldie River campsite is surrounded by steep valley walls on three of the four sides, with a single narrow track leading out each way.  It was here that we had our final break and got ourselves ready for the climb that would mark the end of our journey.  

Prior to our trip Craig had shown me his father’s medals from the war, there were quite a number of stunning medals on a long row.  There was also a very special one that designated his father as a “Rat of Tobruk”.   This medal was set inside its own special box and I could tell that it was a particularly important medal.  I remember looking at in awe, as Craig carefully lifted the lid and showed it to me the night before we left on our adventure.   He told me he planned to carry them on the trek and to wear them on the last climb up to the arches to pay tribute to and in remembrance of his dad who had fought so bravely before being captured and held captive as a Prisoner Of War (POW) for more than three and half years.  

Surrounded by jungle and steep cliffs - day eight

As we were about to leave we were checking our packs for the last time, taking a final sip of water and slathering on plenty of sunscreen as this final hike was in full sun up the side of a very steep ridge to the arches.  I was just packing up my stuff, when I noticed Craig coming toward me, he had just placed his dad’s medals on his shirt – they looked magnificent as he strode toward me.    As I took a closer look at him he was holding out his hand and there in his palm was his dads Tobruk medal in its box, he said “mate, this is for you to wear.   I want us to finish this together for our dads”.   I could feel the tears welling in my eyes – what a wonderful and unexpected gift, in fact I would have to say it was the best gift anyone has ever given to me and what an honor it was for him to pin it to my shirt. 

Recovering slightly as he pinned to my shirt, Mick asked us all to gather around him in a circle, shoulder to shoulder.   As we assembled we naturally placed our arms over the shoulders of the guy on either side of us.  He then asked us to share with the group the reason why we had come on the trip.  My mind began to race as I tried to put some semblance of rational thought together for my turn.  I had shared my story for the most part with a few of the guys on the trip, but not with everyone.  Now after Craig had pinned his dad’s medal on me I was completely awash with my emotions and now all the thoughts and reflections that I’d had about my dad were now surfacing and flying about inside my head…… my turn was coming fast but with so many feelings literally bouncing around in my head I felt ill prepared to talk, well at least not rationally.  

It was the most emotional experience of my life, cos it wasn’t only me who was now struggling to keep their emotions in check, as I looked furtively around the circle there were many with tears unashamedly streaming down their cheeks as they listened and then in turn shared their stories quietly with the group.   Thank goodness I thought – at least I wasn’t the only one who was an emotional basket case, as tears welled in my eyes and making it almost impossible to focus.  

Before I knew it everyone’s eyes slowly turned to me.

TW & Craig at the Arches - Owers Corner
we'd made it!

I tried to speak, but nothing came out – I was completely choked up and it took a few long seconds and some incredibly deep breaths to squeak out the reason for me joining the expedition.   I explained that my dad had been diagnosed with brain cancer just over a year before.  I went on to tell them that he died in February after a very brave and courageous fight, and that I wanted to turn a negative into a more positive experience and so had raised money ($15,350) for Cancer Research in his memory.  This expedition was allowing me to remember him and celebrate his life.  I could sense the encouragement of the group as I spoke, and felt Craig squeeze my shoulder as I spoke about dad.  There I’d done it.            

It was Craig’s turn now and he spoke eloquently about his dad, sighting that he wasn’t a hero, or a sportsman of note, but just a guy trying to do what he thought was the right thing to do in the circumstances.   He captured the moment beautifully and along with two or three others who had a personal connection to WWII gave a wonderful tribute to his dad and to why he was there.

As we trekked out on that final climb to Owers I could sense dad walking with me, hear his familiar gait close by and his presence all around me.   We were at the end of a long and poignant journey - thanks for everything dad.

Life after the track

Let’s get this straight – the track was bloody hard!   That being said the more we walked the fitter we became, so it was quite strange in that once you found your rhythm you tended to just get it done – day after day.   Although at times I must admit we resembled mountain goats more that humans, with our heavy packs and the constant grinding climbs, not to mention that we smelled as bad if not worse!  

There was no easy way to get off the track once you were on it, unless it was a dire emergency and even then it was going to be hard - heaven help you if they had to call a chopper and airlift you out.   Not only was it difficult to get a reception of any consequence on the Global Satellite Phone when under the deep canopy or on some isolated mountain ridge or perhaps in the depths of a far flung creek valley, but it was also going to be a very expensive proposition to get a chopper dispatched.   The only real way out was a simple…..one foot in front of the other until you were done – no secrets to that.



Cooking hut at Deniki - our first meal on the track



What do you think was the number conversation topic on the track?   Pretty much always the first and most pressing conversation centered the topic of food! Surprisingly this topic would’ve likely been the same one our fathers, grandfathers and uncles had 70 years ago when they fought along this very same track, so I find it quite ironic that after all these years nothing really has changed, except no-one was trying to kill us, oh and that our gear was all high tech and that didn’t have any pressing place to be…..but other than that it was almost identical J   Given that we didn’t have the number of “dingos breakfasts” as I’m convinced they did during their time on the track we were still craving food after just a couple of days.  

For me it was around day three, and facing a lunch comprising of crackers, highly processed cheese and dried sausage yet again, with likely rice or noodles for an evening meal, possibly with some curried vegetables, it was all starting to get a bit repetitive (sorry Mick – and no, I’m not paying a 5Kina fine for complaining about the food!)  This brought on my first real cravings for some type of food or drink.   As we chatted we found that there were a few of us in the same boat.   Of course there were the standard few that said they couldn’t wait for a “nice coldie” (beer in Australian), but generally it wasn’t beer that everyone craved.   How strange I thought, especially for a bunch of Aussies!     

The conversation almost always centered on our first meal at “home.  “What was it going to be?”  Actually I had two cravings and for some reason my first craving were fish and chips of all things.   I actually couldn’t remember the last time I had fish and chips, but there you have it.  My “chaser” for this delectable meal was definitely going to be a fresh fruit smoothie – my god it sounded so delicious and so alluring that it had my mouth watering just at the very thought of it.    I knew exactly where I wanted to get my fish and chips from as well; I could picture the fish and chip shop as I spoke about it (the one on Pleasant Street near the Bunch of Grapes hotel in Ballarat near my sisters).   My best mate Craig’s passion was definitely pizza; Ralphy wanted roast lamb and others a nice big steak.   Such different cravings I thought – I guess that’s the spice of life isn’t it?   Everyone wants something different.  The problem was that we each conversation it only made us hungrier and so we had to almost stop ourselves from talking about it lest we get grumpy cos we couldn’t get out preferred foods.   This became much harder as we got closer to the end of the trip.

Taking a well earned break on the Kokoda Track

These conversation threads often occurred when we were on a well earned break or after another epic climb, and so when we'd heard Mudman say “packs off” it was a god send!  I’d sit there just like everyone else, completely knackered, often sitting in sheer exhaustion with heads bowed, others drinking in large and sometimes urgent gulps of water or Gatorade to quench the never ending thirst, or yet others were stripping to the waist to shed anything that promoted further sweat.   Collectively we would all shake our weary heads as what we’d just accomplished.   During these breaks my mind had a propensity for wandering and I clearly remember asking myself, on more than one occasion “what was life going to be like after the track?”   Okay, some people might think I need serious help – yes, I did do a lot of talking to myself over the course of the trip but in a good way, not in a scary, crazy, loopy sort of way……yeah, I can read your minds!  J

I must admit so far the expedition had been a wonderful respite from the frenetic pace of life that I’d left behind just a few short days before, and a most welcome break particularly from all the email, phone and text messages that I’m inundated with on a daily basis, but would it be different I thought?  

Part of me just wanted the constant physical challenges and pain to be over with, but surprisingly the more days that passed the more I wanted the experience to slow down so that I could absorb and take in every second of the adventure, every sound and every smell (well technically not all the smells…), but you get my drift.   I knew that in a week from that moment I’d be back at work sitting at my desk wondering if it had all been just all a dream.    

One of the many Pandanus palms
that  was 100's of years old

I'd definitely miss the beauty and the exotic nature of our environment here, surrounded by rugged mountains and swiftly running creeks, the thick jungle and the striking flora and fauna particularly the colorful butterflies that covered us at times when we rested.   What an extreme I thought to myself, especially coming from a huge bustling city like Melbourne or Toronto (Ballarat not so much!)   You probably couldn't find two greater extremes on the face of the planet - from these mega cities to the wilds of Papua….and back again.

The trip was a once in a lifetime and “wouldn’t have missed it for quids” but what would I miss most?  I think it was time to think, the peace and tranquility of the jungle and the sounds of my heart beating and my lungs breathing in that refreshing mountain air…….that’s what I’d miss most.   

The sounds of distant life in a far off land

Mudman and the "boys"

Surprisingly this isn’t the name of a new Australian band, or even the name of one of the latest rappers, but rather the name of an incredible individual and his unbelievable team of porters or “the boys” as they are more commonly referred to out on the track.  The “boys” were made up of a broad assortment of men (although we did have a 9 year old apprentice porter join us for the second half of the expedition) mostly from the village of Kagi which is located about mid point in the journey from Kokoda to Owers Corner.  Kagi is perched on top of a high ridgeline about four hours trek from the highest peak (Mt Bellamy) and is located in one of the most scenic spots on the track - looking out majestically over the Efogi River which runs swiftly some 500 meters below the village.   

Our youngest "boy" - Simeon - all of 9 years old

Arriving into Kagi late on the afternoon of day four was quite a moment, as all of the children, wives and the majority of the villagers came out to greet us.  At that time I wasn’t sure why everyone was so happy to see us…..up until this point the villagers had been generally very reserved and quiet when we trudged through their village, perhaps only stopping to buy some bananas, pineapple or strangely a can of warm coca cola which many of the villages seem to have in quantity.  (And I thought we were isolated from the real world!)  But this was the “boys” village and it was evident that everyone was happy to see them.

That night was one of the most memorable nights of our expedition as the local church choir sang for us, both at their regular church service which many of our group gravitated toward and then again after dinner as the local singers joined us around our campfire.  Listening to their exquisite voices and songs relaxed me to the point of nodding off (yes, it was nearly 7:00 pm), and so realizing sleep wasn’t far off I bid my goodnight and wandered quietly to my tent.  It was amazing to fall sleep to the sound of their beautiful and harmonious voices.   I should try this more often as it worked a treat!

The job of porter is very prestigious not only in Kagi but in all the villages that we passed through, you could tell by the level of deference shown that the role of porter was considered pretty important and by Papuan standards they were generally well off in comparison to others who we saw on our expedition.  

Freddy, "Mudman" and Sai out on the track

Our head porters name was Ereul "Mudman" Senisi, it was completely impossible to guess his age – he could be anywhere between 30 and 50 years old or maybe even older…..  “Mudman” as he was commonly known was a quiet and somewhat shy fellow with us trekkers, but a seemingly tough task master when on the track or in the bush with the “boys”.  He was the boss, no questions about that and each day he directed them as if he were a conductor leading an orchestra.   He was completely in tune with each and every porter, irrespective of age or experience and knew exactly what was needed to ensure the trip was a success for everyone concerned.

The story of how he became known as “Mudman” is a little odd, but here goes……early in his career as a porter, when he was a mere lad, he often had trouble with his bowels when walking on the track, and so everyone began calling him Mudman because of the difficulty he had with his bowel movements.  I guess his mates all agreed that whatever he ate obviously turned to mud and so that’s why he couldn’t go on a regular basis – it stuck, and henceforth he’s always been known as “Mudman” or Mud.  Truth be told a rather fitting nickname don't you think?

One day I asked him how many times he had done the track – his response was 64 times.  Wow, I thought to myself here I am struggling to do it once.  As I explored this with him in conversation he added that he only counted the times that he had completed the trip with a tour party ……he doesn’t count the times after the end of a tour when he walks back to Kagi from our end point at Owers Corner.  So at a minimum he’s walked the track at least 130 times, and this rather conservative estimate is without him walking the track any other times in his life.   Holy crap – just in tours alone that’s 100 km per trip X 130 times……13,000 km back and forth along the track.  A more realistic figure is closer to 200 times!   And here’s the scary part, when he isn’t held up by the likes of us (tour group) he completes the same walk in less than 24 hours (yes, folks for those playing along at home – normally the tour group completes the same trek in four days!).   Did I also mention that most of the “boys” walk the track in bare feet as well…..yes its official – these “boys” are truly machines!

Mudman was up early each day coordinating all the logistics for the day ahead, often sending a couple of the “boys” out along the track as early as 3:30 am so that they could find a spot for morning tea, get a campfire going and a Billy of hot water prepared for us.   Generally he’d give us a five minute warning before it was time for “packs on” and heaven help you if you were in your morning fog and you thought you heard him say “packs on” and slipped on your pack too early…….do I hear a five Kina fine coming?   Thanks Nathan we’ll collect that tonight at Tribal council mate J

The "boys" at the end of the day....tired just like us? 
Not so much!

Just close your eyes for a moment and imagine the following scene:  it’s approaching 6:00 am (since when was the last time you were up and ready to go at 6:00am?) you’re deep in the heart of the Papuan jungle, the air thick with humidity, the ground soggy after monsoonal rains the night before, the pitter patter of the dripping canopy all around you, the acrid smell of wood smoke thick in the air as it hovers over the campsite and everything you wearing is soaking wet and extremely smelly!   Add to this the exhaustion factor because you’ve been up since 4:30 am and now getting ready to face another 10 -12 hours of extreme hiking.  “Packs on” he’d scream……then with the cadence of a well trained drill instructor lead us in our daily war cry to which he and everyone around me bristled and screamed back to him in unison:

                Two arms….two arms   

                Two hands……two hands

                Two steady bands……two steady bands (referring to your legs)

                Beneath the Southern Cross we stand……beneath the Southern Cross we stand

                With an SP (South Pacific beer) clasped in our hands……with an SP clasped in our hands

                A product of our native land……a product of our native land

                When suddenly, a voice cries within me……when suddenly, a voice cries within me

                “Fuzzy wuzzy” – (to get the full effect you have to drawl these words out)......”fuzzy wuzzy”

                “You bloody beauty”……”you bloody beauty”

Then everyone provides a full throated roar, cheer, warble……….closely followed by a rousing rendition of Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi

His way of revving us up and getting us out of the fog was this simple, yet effective morning war cry.  Trust me; his morning war cry had a way of making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and most mornings possibly even giving you a lump in the throat…..   It certainly pumped the blood and refocused our attention in a very powerful way.   Brilliant Mud!



TW living the dream.....



Then he’d always end with his classic line “let’s rock n ‘roll……up or down” (depending on our immediate trajectory) in his unique and precise tones.   Then off we’d set for another day of high adventure in the jungles of Papua New Guinea! 

What can I say I was living the dream…….

A Family Affair

Rising at 2:00 am on our first morning to catch a 3:00 am bus to the airport is a tough way to start any journey – let’s face it you’re sleep deprived and groggy and so it was with this fog that I boarded the Ballarat bus with my mate Craig to begin our Kokoda adventure.  Clearly I hadn’t picked up on the subtle yet interesting fact that on our expedition we had two different family groups on the bus that morning.  Okay I come from a family of five siblings, and never would it have crossed my mind to undertake such a monumental trip with my real brothers or sister (no offense – we’re just aren’t that interested in the same stuff, or close enough given that I’ve lived out of Australia for so many years).  That being said I truly consider Craig my brother so even a deep friendship can, in some ways be construed to be “family”…..   Well, that’s not what I’m talking about here.   Nope, we had a father and son and two brothers undertaking the adventure as part of our group.  

There are some interesting anecdotes that I want to share about our father and son duo.   It was the morning of day three and I was starting to feel good and therefore a little more talkative with those around me.  As you walk you get to talking to the person either in front or behind as you can really only walk single file along the track.   That morning I was fortunate to be walking behind Ron Verlin – father of the father and son duo.  As we talked we discovered that we had attended the same country secondary school (Maryborough Technical College) - clearly quite a few years earlier than me though eh Ron?   As well, he had worked for many years at Patience & Nicholson (P&N as its more commonly known in Maryborough) with one of my brother-in-laws (Graeme Palmer).  As well, Ron had at one time been heavily involved with and past president of the Learmonth Football Club, which coincidently was another team in the league where I had played football as a kid.  It was strange to think that our paths had likely crossed many times over the years prior to this trip but unbeknown to us.   What a small world I thought particularly given that I was now living 10,000 miles away in Canada, yet our paths crossed again here in Papua New Guinea.

Ron and Aaron Verlin at one of the many creeks

Now one thing that I can attest to is our difference in age – Ron is a spy and fit 61 year old (stop it, I’m much younger!), in fact he celebrated this milestone (61^st birthday) during the expedition.  What a special moment that must have been, particularly cos the “boys” had baked a cake for him and we all sang happy birthday for him as we stood around the campfire and demolished his cake with him.  Ron was another of the real characters that we somehow were fortunate to have on our trip, clearly providing an added dash of color and fun to even the darkest and tiring moments of our trip, it’s amazing what a good laugh will do to everyone’s spirits.

When I asked Ron about his motivation for the trip, it was about undertaking something very special with his son Aaron.   Aaron now lives some distance away in Canberra (Australia’s political capital) with his family so they don’t get an opportunity to spend a lot of time together, especially quality time.   Aaron wasn’t shy per see, although next to Ron even Dame Edna Everage would look quiet and reserved!   With Aaron it was clear that the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree and he was a truly genuine and likeable bloke.

On our final morning, just before we started our hike Ron and Aaron had their backs to the group and were looking off into the jungle, they spoke a few quiet words to each other and in that moment of quiet reflection they put their arms around one another, oblivious to the world around them.  They had made the journey of a lifetime and were about to conquer the Kokoda track together – what an accomplishment!  Clearly this was a very special moment for them and one they equally cherished.  It was at that moment that I felt the loss of my dad more than ever, knowing that I would never get the chance to do anything like this with him or to be with him again brought tears to my eyes.   If only we’d had the chance I thought……but as I reflected on our relationship I realized that even if he were alive he wasn’t that kind of dad.  Nope, he was a no-nonsense, non-emotional old fashioned gent who kept everything in check and he definitely wasn’t sort of dad that would head off on an adventure like this with his son.  I thought how lucky Aaron was to have a dad like Ron.

I guess with such a large group (25 in all with guides); it is somewhat inevitable that we would be blessed with a set of brothers.  Ben and Nathan Ryan reside in Ballarat where they operate a chain of eight family run supermarkets Ryan’s Supa IGA.  During the expedition whenever I we had a break, even just a ten minute stop in the jungle I would inevitably see Ben perched on a stump with his pen and paper balancing on his sweaty knee constantly writing.  I realized then that Ben was no ordinary Supermarket executive, but a serious and passionate writer, although none of us knew it at the time how talented he really was. 

Nathan and Ben Ryan (far left) at Owers Corner
we'd made it!

A few days into the trip he confessed at tribal council that he had written a poem that day, and asked if we’d like to hear it.  It was just any poem; it was a tour de force!   He had included observations about each and every person in our group, and we were completely floored at the expert turn of phrase, his luminating insights and the hilarious observations that he’d woven together about each one of us.   The cheers were long and loud with many a pat on the back and a “well done mate” echoing around the campfire.   It was clear that Ben was a prolific and talented writer and indeed poet, what a wonderful surprise!

His brother Nathan, was the guy that everyone universally liked, including Mr. Ovuru Ndiki. (Mr. Ndiki is believed to be 106 years old and is considered a PNG National treasure - he is the oldest “fuzzy wuzzy” still alive from WWII.  The “fuzzy wuzzy angels” as they were more commonly referred to by our troops helped the Australians carry wounded and supplies back and forth over the Owen Stanley’s during the long and arduous Kokoda campaign).  We met Mr.Ndiki in the village of Nadoori one afternoon, and he took quite a shine to young Nathan.  I like to think it was cos he’s a nice bloke, although I rather think his eyesight is failing and he may have thought Nathan to be a young lady with his long flowing locks…..hence Mr.Ndiki’s omnipresent smile throughout the visit. 

Now Nathan was a tad forgetful at times which was evident in the fact, that he quite often, after a break would walk off without his poles, or put his pack on before we had the go ahead from Mudman or make a comment at tribal council when the fines were being doled out that made you think “no, he can’t be serious can he?”  However, what made me smile most was his innate curiosity and sense of innocence with the world; it truly felt like he was looking at the world for the very first time each day.  What can I tell you other than I was quite envious of his wonderfully positive disposition and frame of mind.

Each night I found myself trying to remember all of the things that I had seen, done and experienced that day, quite often I would often find myself laughing out loud as I jotted down my notes.  This was one of the best times of the day; I could finally relax my mind, rest my weary bones and let the stories flow…..now that was bliss!

Finding those damn "track legs"

The human body is an amazingly adaptable machine!   Never was this more evident than on the Kokoda track, but for some it took longer than others to find their “track legs”.  This (some might say mythical state) was when you were in complete harmony with the track and were considered to be in your stride, not laboring or struggling too much and overall handling the intense exertions and ups and downs with apparent ease.    

Well, we (mostly just me) had already felt the initial pain of walking from Kokoda village up to Deniki in the afternoon heat (yes all 5km of it), but we were to find that this was a comparative “walk in the park” when it came to the difficulty of the track itself. 

There were two distinct states of walking, the first state was where you’re walking for extended periods completely uphill, so steep that all you can do is concentrate on the heels of your cohort directly in front of you, legs burning with pain, your chest heaving from sheer exhaustion which left you unable to do anything but breath in large gulps of hot, humid air, your heart and lungs pounding and wheezing in tandem so much that you think they’re going to leap from beneath your ribs and flop on the track in front of you; and trust me there are times when you wished it would just happen, anything to end the pain!  

The second state was once you finally crested that peak, you began the even more dicey passage down the other side and now the reality is that you’re frightened shitless with the steepness of the track down – slowly navigating the slippery contours of the red sticky clay or the billions of tree roots always ready and willing to trip you or ensure you slip as you try and plant a foot.  And, beg your pardon but please don’t look anywhere but at the heels of your mate in front of you lest you completely seize up with anxiety at the enormous mountain drops that surround you – potential danger lurked with every step.   

I used my walking poles from the moment I got off the plane at Kokoda – I’d like to think of myself as a bit of a trend setter vs. a nerd – “who uses poles on flat ground?” – okay fair point!  Many of the group that had silently pooh-poohed the idea of poles initially – nah, they’re for sissy’s (sound familiar?), yet after a day or two of trying to navigate this devilish track most of the guys had either miraculously discovered walking poles in their backpacks or had one of the “boys” cut a limb from a vine and trim it for them to use as a walking stick (a.k.a a Jesus pole).   Clearly TW was a trend setter! J     So to respect the track was to take it slow and steady – no prize for first, but to do it in your own way. 

Nathan, "Ralph", Jimmy (center), next to Kruser and Ang taking
a well earned break day two

Bugger me!   I thought as I walked behind Jimmy Grant whose apparent level of fitness and nonchalance on the track made him the poster boy for “Afternoon Walks Weekly”.   Most days Jimmy literally strolled along on the heels of Mudman (our lead guide) chatting away to whomever was within earshot as if he were sitting at the local coffee shop sipping a fresh latte, whilst the person traipsing along behind was gasping for breath or hanging on for dear life (depending on whether you were going up or down) and trying to understand how and the hell Jimmy wasn’t even breathing hard.   Although there was the afternoon in the swamp when Mudman walked directly into a honey bee hive and turned trying to beat a hasty retreat before getting stung to within an inch of his life only to find Jimmy less than a step behind and blocking his exit.  The first thing Jimmy knew was that Mudman had pushed him aside and was quickly sloshing his exit waving his arms in the air frantically……it took just a couple of bees stings to get Jimmy’s attention before he also found himself making a hasty retreat also via another man made track through the adjacent jungle…..he may have even puffed just a little, but that’s only a rumor!   Clearly Jimmy was one of those rare and most fortunate people to have his “track legs” from the moment he met us at the airport in Melbourne the day before we landed in Papua New Guinea and we were all just a little envious – can’t you tell?

The track provided more than just the obvious fitness challenges which Mick had pointed out in his initial briefing to us in Port Moresby.   It was pretty evident that this important little fact would get to quite a few of us over the ensuing days.   I took this to heart, each day waking at 4:30 am to check my feet for blisters or hotspots?  After a good rummage around my feet and ankles I’d apply a band-aid or tape to spot that I considered a candidate for a blister. This coupled with fresh, dry socks each day enabled me to escape blister free, I was lucky but for many in our group it was a very painful experience that played its way out each and every painful day.   I could only watch and thank my lucky stars that I had escaped this terribly affliction. 

Typical village "out-house"

Yes, all well and good that I dodged a bullet on the blisters front, but night six saw me up much of the night with a terrible case of nausea and diarrhea.  Just the worst possible thing – putting on your sandals and headlamp during the night and schlepping out to the palm leafed covered hut that served as a toilet (yes, just a smelly hole in the ground) to poop…….most unsavory even at the best of times.  Again I wasn’t alone with this either affliction, I guess six or seven of us had this over the course of the expedition on varying days.

As I reflect on the trip there are a couple of classic examples of our team either finding their “track legs” or in Arab’s case not finding them.   Last week I talked about Justin (a.k.a Arab) and his fining finesse but I must admit he had some tough days and suffered in so many ways that it’s hard to imagine even contemplating finishing the track under your own steam.  Surprisingly this wasn’t his first foray on the track, nope he’d done Kokoda before (a glutton for punishment clearly), but this time saw him a few pounds heavier and with a few niggling injuries leading up to the trip making for an interesting adventure.  Let’s see; he was able to successfully pull his calf muscle on day three (well I suppose he did sort of deserve it after kicking the football with the boys at morning tea, all the while being egged on by Ronny and company so going just that little bit harder to prove he still had it……twang - damn that hurt!), a high ankle sprain on day six after slipping and falling, very sore knees and to top it off a stomach virus (thanks TW) that left him dry retching for much of days seven and eight……   All I could think of was how mentally tough he was to not complain and keep going.

Hilly with his Jesus pole resting as he listens
to Darren provide us a history lesson

Another of our crew was the laconic and surprisingly funny – Marcus Hill.  If you didn’t know “hilly” as he was commonly referred to on the track you’d never expect that in real life he’s one of the top executives with one of Australia’s retail giants (Myer).   His dry wit, unbelievably chic 70’s safari suit attire (thought I didn’t notice eh?), compounded with his uncompromising and biting humor often left everyone around him in stitches.   I was fortunate enough to walk with hilly for a fair bit of the track, and he left me breathless almost every time I walked behind him…….not sure if it was the mountain breads (baked beans and bully beef for lunch) or the diet of coke and dried Chinese noodles but whatever it was it was a powerful brew which were both loud and at times rather odorous J   And yes, he was as funny as hell.  Anytime you’d take a break he’d have others around him laughing uncontrollably at his insights, quips and comebacks.   The problem that hilly had that not many people knew was that his feet were very badly blistered – in fact during one break when he took his boots off it looked as though the entire bottoms of his feet were one large water blister…….they looked that bad!    Yet, like Arab he didn’t complain once, but just kept going step after miserable step, hobbling along with his Jesus pole, semi bent over to try and relieve the weight on his feet.  Okay he did look a bit geriatric but clearly he found his “track legs” albeit a little more painfully than most of the group but in the end he made it in good form.   Well done mate!

Each day a couple more found their “track legs” and were pretty jovial at camp that night, you could see it written on their faces – mostly relief and with a sense that now they’d be able to actually make it physically barring any unforeseen accident on the track.  However for those that were still struggling and looking for their elusive ‘track legs” they began to use a rather derisive tone whenever the term mentioned.  

I must admit I was fortunate to find my legs toward the end of day two, but then not so fortunate to then lose them on day seven with my bout of the stomach flu (a strict diet of Imodium, dry crackers, jam and water ensued and now became my best friends).   Strangely I’d never considered losing my “track legs” – perhaps I was even a bit of a trend setter in this area as well…….lucky me!

Walking with Ghosts

For those of you that have read my prior blogs you’ll remember that I’m a bit of a history buff and over the years have read more than my fair share of Australian military history.  The reason was pretty simple really; my grandfather (my mum’s father) served in both world wars.  He volunteered for the first Australian Imperial Force (AIF) in late 1915 and after six short weeks of training found himself on a troopship cooped up with thousands of other young “diggers” bound for England and eventually the Western Front in France where he fought with the 49th Battalion, 13th Brigade of the 4th Australian Division.   Surprisingly he survived two years of “hell on earth” although it was apparently a very close run thing after being severely wounded and gassed in those two final years of the war and spending a significant amount of time in a variety of hospitals in England both during and after the war recuperating.   Somehow he survived that epic conflict and returned home to his wife and four young children, where he set about having an additional two children – mum being one of them.

Now you’d think that someone with his intimate knowledge and background of war would likely “sit out” the next one - right?   Well, not so much!    Not only does he attempt to volunteer again in 1940 for the 2^nd AIF at the ripe old age of 51 but was denied based on his age.  Although that didn’t seem to stop him as he then got wind that his old unit – the 49^th Battalion was being re-formed in Queensland as part of the newly created militia so he literally marched down to the local barracks and signed up on the spot.   The militia was made up of 18, 19 and 20 year old that were too young to sign up for the AIF without their parents’ permission (needed to be 21) or men older than 35 which put a large majority of those that had fought in the first war back in uniform.  Some might say a "mixed bag" of the too young and the too old.

We'll never really know how they chose which militia battalion was going to New Guinea in 1942.  The reality is that grandfathers battalion was based in North Queensland and therefore much closer to New Guinea and should have been the obvious choice to go first, but in retrospect I guess it was the luck of the draw that dictated who went and who stayed.  Who lived and who died......

I can see you all now scratching your heads going – okay cool story but how does this fit into the story of Kokoda?  

As a kid growing up, Mum really didn’t speak a lot about my grandfather except that she always said that he was a bit of a “lad"……as a kid I really wasn’t sure what that meant, but as I reflect back on those long forgotten conversations I think it was his way of living life.   He was an adventurer of sorts, someone who wasn’t afraid of a little hard work, the occasional fight or “having a go”.

Deniki at dawn - rain ahead!

So as I sat listening to the pitter patter of rain on my tent that very first night at Deniki I felt the presence of both my dad (who had passed away earlier in the year) and my grandfather……right there with me.   Clearly I was going a little crazy I thought, was it my malaria tablets affecting me or was it the tropical heat?   Strangely though as I looked around to my cohorts and as I observed them I sensed that I wasn’t alone in this frame of mind – there were many others just like me who were walking with the weight of their fathers, uncles, grandfathers or families on their shoulders.  Trying to come to terms with the feelings of being “good enough” or measuring up to those that had gone before us.

A perfect example was one of the guys in our group John Bartlett.   John was a pretty quiet and shy fellow who at the start of the walk didn’t know a soul.  I remember asking John early on in our adventure about his motivation for doing the Kokoda track and he related the somewhat fragmented story of his father that he had pieced together after his passing.  His father (Corporal John Alexander Bartlett) had fought in Papua New Guinea as a commando often behind enemy lines as part of the coast-watchers, winning a Military Medal for bravery, but his father like most of the veterans had never shared a single story of what they had been through, no linkage to those years of their life – nothing but a void.   It seemed as though John was trying to connect with his dad and feel what his dad must have experienced even for just a short time.  It was clear to me that this was a very meaningful journey for John and I'm so glad that I got a chance to share it with him.

Another of our group was Grant Cushion from Melbourne, whose grandfather had fought along the very same track as we were hiking during those dark and desperate days and was one of the lucky few to survive and return home.  Cush had done quite a bit of research and had even been able to get his grandfathers war records from the Australian War Memorial research library.  They are photocopies of the original journals that were kept on the front lines, so you can imagine they are written in long hand and surprisingly detailed.   These clearly helped Cush on his journey as he could look for specific landmarks and locations where his grandfather had walked some seven decades earlier.  Very powerful stuff indeed!



Isurava Memorial and the four pillars



Day two of our expedition saw us hike from Deniki to Alola, transversing the ridgeline high above Erora creek.  We stopped for lunch at Isurava.   After having the pleasure of visiting Isurava two words spring to mind – peace and harmony which is quite strange considering its violent past - but there you have it.  I was in awe of my surroundings as I sat there listening to the wind in the tops of the trees and the noises of the jungle echoing around me.

Perhaps the most moving part of the day was when we stood shoulder to shoulder in a circle at the memorial.  Ron Verlin, the elder statesmen of our group read the last stanza of the poem “Ode to Remembrance” before we played the Last Post.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Lest we forget

As we stood there in silence, with the sounds of the Last Post reverberating around us - I can tell you there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.   We ended the service with the four simple words that are etched into the black granite pillars.  Today I know them by heart as I spoke these words softly to my dad and grandfather each day before I started to hike, as I'm sure many of my group did as well.   These four words will forever bond me to my brothers whom I shared my Kokoda adventure with.

Courage - Endurance - Mateship – Sacrifice