Maria Island: Probation

Preamble

Father’s Day. Melbourne. Standing outside the dental clinic in the cold, pouring rain at 11 am, jaw throbbing from first stage implant, lips numb, somewhat disorientated, I waited for the Uber, which was running late. My son lives around the corner. He must still be in bed I thought. Too much to expect a twenty minute lift back to the city hotel? Perhaps I had failed as a father?

I was told by my dentist not to physically exert myself for several weeks while healing. Yet, I had to rehabilitate my knee and, at the same time, train for a multi-day hike on Maria Island, Tasmania. My partner had said she would summit Mount Maria with or without me - with another man if necessary, for safety. I had protested jealously, much to her indignation. Perhaps I was also failing as a partner?

The physical challenge to repair myself and get into shape seemed almost trivial in comparison to the mental lifting, the burning of new, better, neurological pathways that I hoped would enable me to escape the penitentiary of my mind. Convicts once lived on Maria Island in probation. Perhaps they too were fathers and long-lost partners? They could not have known that, some two hundred years in the future, a man would visit their island, intent on voluntary self-rehabilitation.

A work bomb had landed in my lap two weeks before we were due to leave, the shrapnel from which tore into the mental space reserved for preparation. Because I had been reading Marcus Aurelius and other Stoica, I almost welcomed the new wound, simply grafting it onto the recent fall and aggravation of my previously torn meniscus. Bring it on, I had proclaimed, throw everything at me, everything you’ve got, universe.

I was starting work at 7am so that I could leave at 3pm and head straight out for training hikes. So carefully I walked, on the rocks, in the mud, across streams and creeks, like walking on eggshells. The mental focus was mindfulness meditation. Marcus would have been proud. Except the tendrils of insecurity managed to writhe into my temporary solace as I rambled on through the quiet and resplendent bush. My son, my partner, my knee, my work, my mind. I fought back, focusing on my surroundings. A rustle in the leaves, the ephemeral fringe lily, a conspicuous pink cherry blossom, gum trees redolent of medicine for the spirit and a red-bellied black snake to respect - all these helped - but they could not keep the demons at bay for long. Rinse and repeat, every two days, weight incrementing, until almost two weeks later, I could hike 12km with 16kg for over 3.5 hours. My partner and I were relieved that I was physically stronger if not super fit, Yet I quietly remained mentally fragile somehow, still wary of the seemingly uncontrollable insecurities. Although we agreed my physical progress was suffient to go ahead with the trip without significant rewiring of the itinerary, would it be enough to hike all day and up mountains with her? Enough to free my mind?

Probation commences…

While it had been a promising start to the trip in Tasmania - great food in Launceston, magnificent drive down to the lush Blue Tier forest, a night camping in the stunning Bay of Fires - it had not been without some sticky behaviour on my part, getting into a huff with the jumble of gear in the car which cost me the best part of the sunset. Thankfully, sunrise and a new day burned off any remnant mood funk lest it bled further into the early probabtion.

Later that day, on the eve of Maria Island, we had a tense hour out on the chalet balcony, debating the best method for setting up the tent in the rain – a tedium that spilled into the evening glass of wine our neighbours were trying to enjoy on their balcony. Comical now upon reflection, but at the time a miserable portent of a rain-sodden first night. Our choice was to either march down to a derelict farmhouse called French’s Farm, where we would at least have some shelter to prepare dinner, if not sleep (not allowed), or, to camp at Darlington with everyone else. No cars are allowed on the island. There are no shops. Just a mess hall and toilets and information huts and a barbecue area. You must take your rubbish with you back to the mainland.

Finally, we agreed on our rainy tent erection and headed out for pizza and wine – a simple treat before three days of dehydrated food and water flavoured with hydration tablets. After repacking our gear and countless visits to the dreadful new B.O.M website, we made the decision that we would hike down to the farmhouse on the first day, thus freeing ourselves from the masses and opening up the prospect of tackling Mount Maria the day after, followed by Bishop and Clerk – another mountain day hike - before camping back at Darlington on the final evening. As prepared as I could be physically, I still felt an uneasiness tormenting me. The Stoics made is sound easy, even setting up tents in the rain perhaps. They could not have known however, about the titanic struggles of the anterior mid-cingulate cortex.

The day started well enough. We checked in with the Parks and Wildlife office opposite the ferry terminal. Others seemed less prepared for their camping trip, much to the chagrin of the staff, who seemed like they had seen it all before. I suppose a necessary concession given the tourist dollars coming in. My partner enthused over the memorabilia including a poo-flip – a guide to animal scats - before taking a photo of a stuffed wedge-tailed eagle. Not the best omen, or just my demons talking?

The old colony buildings loomed up as our ferry glided toward the jetty at Darlington, tumultuous grey skies threatening over damp green hills and a majestic stand of figs lead the eye southward where we would soon march. We disembarked with the day trippers, many ill-equipped for hiking in what might be a cold and wet afternoon. First impressions stirred mixed thoughts. The gorgeous rugged scenery was most welcome for us, but what for those who would have to toil here for their sins, work the mill and the land until their probation was over?

Once clear of the day-trippers and their insta-hunt for wombats, our spirits lifted as the skies seemed to brighten and the solitude of bush distracted us from our heavy packs. The coastal trail was mostly a rough road which afforded us time to notice the occupants of the lush meadows between us and the sea. Wallabies abound, fewer wombats, some black cockatoos and some gorgeous coastal ecosystems, we marched on with increasing confidence that we had made the right decision.

As we rounded the corner approaching French’s Farm, we were greeted with an empty field. Note quite empty, because as we ventured closer, the local wombat family took an interest in us. What a lovely welcome as one of the big furry balls came up to me for a quick sniff. However, it was not all good news. A light rain had started, putting our much practiced setting up of the tent to test. Thankfully, we passed the test without drama. A pleasant enough evening despite the drizzle thanks to the use of the farm house and a reasonable night’s sleep before the big hike next day.

We roused ourselves from sleep and emerged under blue sky. We had relatively light day packs and began the long march up to Mount Maria. It was fairly easy going on the gradual ascent, all fire trail and eucalypt forest. No special animal sightings or flora for that matter. The mood was upbeat enough, but in the back of my mind was what was coming up ahead in a couple of hours and eventually, we came to the dreaded boulder scramble. Now the real test would begin. This is what I had been training for, physically and mentally. We hadn’t seen any other hikers, so my partner would have to go it alone if I fell short. I had created some kind of narrative in my mind that, if I could do this, all my demons would dissolve.

I carefully chose my foot and hand placement ensuring a conservative risk and used my body strength to lighten the load on my knee. It was not too difficult, not easy either. Slowly we progressed up the scree slope, until we came to a point where we could not. My partner couldn’t quite haul herself up onto a boulder simply because her limbs were not long enough. I could. And I did. I then managed to help her up onto the boulder and in doing so, I felt some of my insecurities fade away. I was confident. I thought back on my anxiety about my partner having to summit with another man and winced at the recollection. But we were not at the summit yet…

Onwards and upwards we clambered. There were one or two occasions where it was precarious. We couldn’t decide which way to risk, based on the positions we had to take up and the risk in the movement involving a fall. But we managed, somehow, and after about an hour we reached the glorious summit. Again, I reflected on my training, my anxieties and how I had seemingly defeated them. It was a truly wonderful experience climbing a mountain for achievement and together we revelled in those lovely moments up there. Then, we had to find the way back down again. And this, as we had acknowledgeded on the way up, would be even trickier, in those places where gravity just wants to throw you off a boulder.

It was hours and hours overall. An epic effort. The final hour found us silent, trudging along, feet aching, my plantar shouting as the light began to fade. We had wanted to arrive back for sunset, but we missed it by thirty minutes. My partner remained silent for the final hour, which saddened me somewhat, after our immense day. Elated yet deflated. Perhaps like Sisyphus and his single boulder. My compromised mood infected the evening, as in the dark we ate dinner silently by the light of our head torches in the empty farmhouse. The following day would be a fresh start. Another day, another challenge, for we would attempt the Bishop and Clerk ascent … and boulders galore.

Probation ends