Isabel's Online Journal

By Isabel Chalmers

I had done this before; we had done it for years. It wasn’t unfamiliar and I was well aware of the risks. Still, this wasn’t how the trip was supposed to be, and for some reason, I thought it would help. I was torn between two minds, but going alone at that point was more comfortable than not going at all.

It was late August, the 23rd, just after 6 a.m. I hadn’t slept much the night before; the stillness had felt heavier than usual. I hugged my knees, listening to the old timber walls groan in the wind, with the harsh realisation that the small cabin had more to say than I did. It was just after sunrise when I left Bluff hut and I remember the sharp cold of that morning hitting my lungs as if the day wanted proof I could handle it.

I wore your light grey jacket over my navy striped long-sleeved shirt. My thermals from the night before were buried in my rucksack beneath the Trangia set and the big bag of English breakfast tea I had insisted on bringing. Stupid, I didn’t even like it that much, and it now felt heavier than the stove. The two mugs were clipped to the outside of my pack, and the soft clanking of worn aluminium was a constant reminder of my silence over the past couple of days.

The kookaburra had started laughing in the tree above me. It was a chilling, sinister laugh, one I wasn’t prepared for; it laughed as if it agreed with the weather, needing proof. That unforgettable smell of eucalyptus, wet grass and old tin sat with me as I laced up my boots. I inhaled slowly, letting it settle in my chest. I remember my fingers struggled to tie a knot, fumbling over and over again.

The trail stretched 21.9 kilometres to Craig’s Hut; I was going to do 13 kilometres that day. I planned this meticulously through and through; nothing could actually go wrong. It was simple, it worked, and we had it double checked. My watch hummed with anticipation as I began logging the hike. I was fine.

The sun rose higher, but the fog decided to stay; it licked at my ankles as I trod on, the ground swimming in and out of sight. I grabbed the peanut butter Cliff Bar from the side pocket of my pack. My dad had bought a stupid amount of them in every flavour for the preparation of this trip, insisting we have options. Now, with the peanut butter brick turning my mouth to glue, I started wishing I had packed a couple of different ones. You would’ve made sure we had choices.

I wandered through the forest of alpine ash and snow gums, which seemed to extend beyond me for eternity, all twisted and contorted. The marbled white and silver of their trunks shimmered with the dewy spiderwebs that laced the Grass trigger plants. It all looked so delicate and fragile. I felt bile rise in my throat. I walked on; the cold had brought tears to my eyes and a harsh slap to my cheeks as if to tell me to snap out of it. I almost called out to you, but the forest stole your name before it left my lips. I felt exposed amongst the trees; their old, bone-like branches were desperately trying to grab a hold of me, wanting to feed on my memories.

At some point, a leech had found the skin behind my knee, sucking the feelings out of me clearly. I hate leeches.

The trees eventually parted and I welcomed the rocky outcrops that now covered the path. A mosaic of danger designed to humiliate my chronic clumsiness. I distracted myself from the jagged, uneven and slippery hell beneath my hiking boots as I listened to the magpies chatting amongst themselves, warbling on about their day and how to spend it. I imagined the Cockatoos were getting in a tiff about something the Kookaburra had said. As if in a trance, I wanted to follow them wherever they went; letting the birds lead me was my mindset for that day. I think it was because all that chatter sounded familiar. I remembered conversations like that, so I pretended to be involved in theirs; I hoped they weren’t judging me.

The day stretched on. I rifled through my rucksack, now turned to rest against my chest, looking for the map you had left behind, the one you adorned with notes, scribbles and shortcuts. It was almost a year ago now that you started this hike and I had hoped that bringing it would make me feel closer to you, but in the end, it’s just a reminder that you are not here to guide me. My boots left deep footprints behind me, and I found myself hoping it wouldn’t rain, so that the soil could hold my last, desperate attempt at reaching you. Although somewhere deep inside, I knew they would fade the same way you are.

I came to a clearing, and I found I wasn’t prepared for the slap that reality had for me. I looked out onto the mountains that sat tight and snug against one another, a sea of green rolling so far onwards that I had to squint to see and even then, it didn’t end. I suddenly felt the weight of every ridge I could never reach and every valley I would never get to. I wondered how many you would’ve crossed alone. The air was so still — everything around me was still. I could no longer hear the birds or the soft rustling of the trees; the wind had even decided to hold its breath, offering its silence as if apologising.

The bile I felt before came up entirely, the awful smell of peanut butter poisoned the air around me as I slumped to the ground.

My watch buzzed, breaking the silence. I’d already done 13 kilometres. I didn’t take as many breaks as we had planned. My dad had made me promise to take selfies at any cool lookouts or high-elevation spots but I couldn’t do that now. I felt guilty but I felt guilty about a lot of things.

I set up my camp early, working quickly to keep my mind from wandering any further. I wrote about the flora and fauna I had seen to distract myself, but my tears dropped onto my journal and mixed with the pen ink. I didn’t want to look back on something I could barely read, so I stopped that pretty quickly. The fire crackled to life and wrapped me in the comforting, smoky scent you loved and masked the smell that had hurled from the depths of me just moments before. My dinner consisted of two potatoes wrapped in foil that were nestled deep in the coals of the fire. I would only eat one.  

I detached the mugs from my pack, placing them on some of the hot embers, an English breakfast in each. I drank mine slowly; it drowned out the icy feeling that was gnawing at my bones but I still felt hollow and empty. Your mug sat quietly beside me. I forgot to bring sugar; you would’ve laughed about that because I can barely drink English breakfast without it.

After a while, my tea was gone and my warmth with it too; all I felt was the chill of my reality creeping back in as I sat and watched your tea go cold for the last time.