So long Leonard……

RIP Leonard. Lovely writing from my mum on the poet, musician, writer, romantic and resembler of Otto my grandad.

What's my DNA?

leonard-cohenOh like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.

I am sure many people feel about Leonard the way I do, so to many, these thoughts and words will be nothing new. Yet, every Leonard Cohen fan has his or her own memories of the songs,  his stories and  of the man himself, and  everyone feels strongly that those memories are their own to hold and no one else can adequately understand  the depth and significance of those. This is what Leonard did, he made everyone feel that he was sharing his stories and his sentiments with each individual.  And so it should be. That is the undeniable power a poet, writer, singer,  artist possesses, he or she makes you become part of them.

My memories go back to the early 70s when Leonard became part…

View original post 1,215 more words


Why It Hurts That Trump Is President-Elect

Why It Hurts That Trump Is President-Elect

“You perceive the force of a word. He who wants to persuade should put his trust not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power of sound has always been greater than the power of sense… Give me the right word and the right accent and I will move the world.”

-Joseph Conrad

The last time I felt this way was on September 11, 2001.

A heavy feeling in my heart.  Disharmony between body, mind and soul that manifested itself as physical illness.  A wish to wake up.  Distractions helped momentarily, but were interrupted by a reminder of the world we live in and a feeling that something vital has been lost, unrecoverable.  Sorrow and pain, sadness.  Not about policies, economics, planning, or anything like that.  But at humanity; that a mean, woman-hating, xenophobic and intolerant ogre would represent the best of democracy and western values.

In the days following the election I had distractions that let me not feel and kept me busy.  I evaded the feelings for a few days, and, as in the past, may have done so indefinitely.  Simply piling my plate with other things to do, study, work on, and so on.  But with some time on Friday 11/11, listening to a newly discovered song that I have never given the time to listen to, Prince’s Purple Rain, I cried and felt, and I brought my emotions to the pen.

“I want to move them out, and we’re going to move them back in and let them be legal, but they have to be in here legally.”

This is important.  I am not American, but America matters to me.  I am also white, relatively privileged and not in touch with the pain or hardship that Trump supporters feel.  But, I do love the USA and I always have.  I love the idyll of what the USA represents: freedom, democracy, success, progress.  And I know it isn’t representative of reality.  The American dream is inspiring, where each person has an equal opportunity to succeed with their idea, hard work and initiative; not their background, gender, skin colour, privilege, wealth or status.  But it is a dream – not real.

This mythology of the USA is alluring; independence from royal oppression; progress after struggles; leadership after isolationism; constant innovation in manufacturing, invention, computers, popular culture, the arts, and social equality.  I’m also not naive, and although I look to America’s positives and don’t confront the reality, because the idyll is so enchanting, I know that the United States has problems.

In school, I had US flags on my wall, memorabilia on my pencil case, cherished our family holidays to the USA, and loved all the American sitcoms.  When 9/11 happened, I cried, I couldn’t sleep, and I wore a US pin.  I grew up in an international school system studying American history, taught by American expatriates, and being exposed to Americans who loved their country and displayed their feelings through Halloween decorations, Christmas celebrations and Thanksgiving welcomes.  I fell in love with the USA, with those aspects that I chose to believe in: her openness, her positivity, her leadership in believing the world could be a better place, her sometimes reluctant leadership that was bestowed upon her, her enthusiasm, her ‘can-do’ spirit, her respect for her down and out and her military members.

“I have so many fabulous friends who happen to be gay, but I am a traditionalist.”

The side I didn’t know how to deal with was her tired, her poor, her sick, her homeless, her oppressed.  I believed, naively, that the lamp of Lady Liberty would help these wretched refuse, because that’s what America did.  I knew these were the bad parts of the greatest democracy, but I believed they would work out in the longer term, through ongoing progress and ever-rising living standards for everyone.

“Can you imagine that, the face of our next next president? I mean, she’s a woman, and I’m not supposed to say bad things, but really, folks, come on. Are we serious?”

‘Yes We Can’ gave hope after a dark period of terrorism, war, and and a growing divide between rich and poor, haves and have-nots.  Obama wasn’t perfect, people living under his government had legitimate complaints.  But, as a figurehead of democracy and of the United States’ potential and nostalgia as a land of the free, and of the American Dream, he was the embodiment.  Obama spoke of tolerance, patience, growth, shared prosperity, equality.  He spoke to my values.  He cared, he was fair, he was funny, he made difficult leadership decisions and they weighed on him, but he was also a human who laughed, cried, joked and showed happiness and sadness.

Hillary wasn’t perfect, but I believed that in leadership she would seal and continue Barack’s legacy of fairness, equality, tolerance and progress.  His and her policies generally aligned with mine, particularly from a social and societal front.  But I also understand the Republican agenda from a commercial and economic front.  Both parties are neither here nor there for me.  My problem with Trump is his meanness and divisiveness.

“All of the women on The Apprentice flirted with me – consciously or unconsciously. That’s to be expected.”

Trump’s campaign was built on hatred, isolationism, and regression.  He made noise, he interrupted, he insulted, he lied blatantly, he didn’t do his research, he was ignorant and he wouldn’t listen to a different opinion than his own.  Trump won an election – declaring that he wouldn’t accept an electoral loss – on promises to:

  • build a wall to keep out Mexicans,
  • to ban inbound Muslims,
  • to forcefully deport undocumented immigrants,
  • to restrict women’s rights to abortion services,
  • to reintroduce torture and waterboarding,
  • to restrict freedom of expression.

Among other unconstitutional, inhumane, and morally wrong actions.  This list of oppression and hatred and rhetoric continues ad nauseam, without a clear thread except for feeding from and fuelling angry and disillusioned public sentiment.  There are, of course, countless retorts for Hillary’s conduct, her untrustworthiness, and her disengagement with voters.  But that’s not my point.  Trump is a bad person, the worst reflection of humanity and one that isn’t bright, progressive or open and tolerant.  His presidency will hurt civilisation.

“I think the only difference between me and the other candidates is that I’m more honest and my women are more beautiful.”

It’s easy to listen to and believe that ‘things will be ok,’ ‘he’ll fill the role,’ and worry less.  But two things rise from the pit of my stomach.  The first is that during Obama’s time in office, Trump bullied, lied, bigoted and insulted his agenda against the President of the United States.  From the ‘birther’ issue to the not-so-subtle racism and the spillover against Hillary, immigrants, trade and Mexicans; he rallied his supporters into febrility.  Should Democrats and those against Trump do the same?  To block every Trump proposition and Republican agenda?  Not against his character, except where it impacts his ability to lead inclusively, but against his unfair and regressive positions.  I don’t agree that our own Australian government should be fawning over a Trump government.  We mustn’t forget the platform of disgust that he built his presidential foundation on, and reset the clock to his speech after election victory.  His campaign and his character is toxic and evil.

“When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending the best. They’re not sending you, they’re sending people that have lots of problems and they’re bringing those problems with us. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bring crime. They’re rapists… And some, I assume, are good people.”

This ties in to my stronger feeling of revulsion against Donald Trump.  Grabbing women by the pussy, sexual assault claims, proud tax evasion, bullying behaviour, climate change denial, aggression, oppression of free speech and media.  These aren’t political values or economic policies; these are values I hold dear to my heart and being.  Donald Trump, the soon-to-be leader of a great country, juxtaposes completely against the United States that I love and respect.  Trump hurts.  By reaching the office the way he has, on the backs, reputations and character assassination of others; he has torn some of my beliefs and values away.  And that hurts.

It makes me sad, it makes me want to hold my loved ones close.  To look for innocence in dogs, animals, people playing, songs, people just living and enjoying themselves.  It was the same as I did after 9/11.  People haven’t lost their lives, but part of our humanity and goodwill has been cleaved away with this electoral outcome.  Humanity like that can’t be recovered.  It speaks of a collective lack of action and feeling for the oppressed, for immigrants, for women, for inequality.

“I know more about ISIS than the generals do.”

Hillary wasn’t ideal, she was flawed, but she represented good.  She mightn’t have been ‘good,’ and she wasn’t beyond reproach, but she wasn’t mean or nasty; regardless of any tie-ins with corporations or banks, she genuinely wanted liberty and justice for all.  That is the difference between the United States I love and Trumpland.  What worries me most isn’t the rhetoric or the campaign of hatred that led to leadership; it’s what is next.  Trump’s campaign narrative has been written from a general public feeling of fear, xenophobia, Islamophobia, and discrimination.  As a demagogue,  he’s crafted that rhetoric and tapped into a disillusioned and forgotten constituency.  But he’s channelling it as a negative energy, against victims and also to fuel his own ego.  These channels on their own are awful, but together they are ominous.  Each requires increasing intensity to fuel the hate-fires and egocentricism within.

So what is my call to action, rather than just a written tirade?  Not the negative campaign that was waged by Trump’s supporters against Obama and his government for two terms.  Just an ongoing reminder and vigilance against the hate-filled platform which lifted Trump to victory.  Anything formed on such a narcissistic and divisive foundation is unstable and built for ill reason.  If Trump unites America and propels her to new united glories, I will happily eat my words and be proven wrong, because the outcome is great.  But until then, I will be mindful and reminding of the poisonous campaign that delivered him the presidency.  To forget and dismiss the foundations and promises of his election is to let in hate and to allow it to manifest in worse forms; to give it more victims.  Standing up to it is easier now, it will only be harder to stop the stronger and longer it gestates.img_7307

“I’ve said if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.”

“When you’re a star they let you do it. You can do anything. Whatever you want. Grab them by the pussy.”


Run, Write, Melbourne Marathon ’16

Run, Write, Melbourne Marathon ’16

This was a strange marathon, my least favourite actual run, but the best experience I’ve had in a marathon.  Up at 5:30am, well fuelled from the pasta dinner the night before, a good muesli breakfast, and with plenty of gels and jelly beans, I was set.  Luana woke with me, and drove me to the start line.  We met her mum and enjoyed the thirty minutes before the race, I had a good position near the 3h50m pacers, by the barrier.  I even used the toilet without issue, and didn’t have to line up in agony a la San Francisco 2015!

A kiss to Luana, and I started with the masses.  I was running down (up?)  Batman Avenue, reasonably quickly (~5:00 pace) among the throngs of runners. I felt pain in my arches.  It felt like a cramp, with my left worse than the right.  A pain I’ve never felt before.  But I continued as it didn’t feel too serious.

The pain subsided as I got into a groove and the running pack started to thin out.  Down St Kilda Road and into Albert Park I was on about 5:20 average, feeling good.  The wind was noticeable but not as strong as I thought.  It didn’t feel too bad going into the headwind, but the tailwinds were pleasant and had me clocking around 5-minute kilometres.

Pre-race nerves 😛
Melbourne Marathon was the monkey on my back; my first marathon, back in 2012, when I had no concept of fuelling or pacing.  I went out very hard very early, sub-5 minutes for the first ten, sub 5:10 for the next ten, and then onto about 5:30 (goal pace) for  kilometres 20 through 25.  From here, it was all downhill hard.  With only two or three gels on me, I was out of fuel and had revved too hard earlier and felt it as I climbed the long uphills of Fitzroy Street onto St Kilda Road and the Tan.  I had hit the wall, felt starved of energy, in agony, and I had twelve kilometres to go.  I adopted a strategy of walking, with a little bit of running where I felt I could, and then walking.  My 4-hour goal was shot, and I ultimately finished in about 4:34 and in a great deal of pain.  That night I felt like I was in a lucid state as I tried to fall asleep, and the next two days at work I was in a daze.

I didn’t attempt another marathon for three years.  In 2015, I ran Los Angeles and San Francisco about three months apart, and felt great.  I raced those marathons.  Partly to conquer the sub-4 hour demon, partly as a way to revisit California, a place I love, and partly because I couldn’t explore something like that until I was with Luana.  In Los Angeles I was by myself, but in San Francisco, Luana was at the start and finish line, as well as pre- and post-marathon.  I kissed my ring when I crossed the finish lines, and she was with me for both 42,195 metres.  Both marathons were actually quite straight-forward, with my times pretty consistently 3:55, although San Francisco was hillier.  Both marathons were hard work in the last ten ks, and I found switching to sugar in the last 30 to 40 minutes worked for me.  Although, there was a distinct shortage of sugar along LA’s final stretch.

Into the MCG
Happy with my sub-four hour runs, I took some time off of looking for a destination marathon to run in 2016, but I trained and ran prolifically for enjoyment.  More kilometres in the first half of 2016 than all of 2015, I was running well and fit, but I hadn’t done any specific marathon or distance training come Melbourne.  I was slightly nervous the week leading to it, but was confident of sub-4 and felt that maybe my volume training and fitness would enable a 3:45 to 3:55 time.

My plan was to run a 5:15 to 5:25 pace, depending on how I felt, and see if I could ramp up in the second half of the race.  I quickly accepted a 5:20 average pace, but didn’t accept a sub-4 hour time until late in the day.

Luana asked me afterwards what I think about while running a marathon.  For the first 5 kilometres, I was mainly focussed on my running line, foot fall, and maintaining a pace that was in the Goldilocks zone of not too fast and not too slow, particularly avoiding being swept up with the faster runners.  For the next ten or fifteen it was more or less about maintaining a fast-ish pace and being aware of my body and how I was feeling.  With my foot pain gone, I was checking the time, checking my pace, and trying not to think too far ahead.  Once onto Beaconsfield Parade going into the wind, it was much the same.  To the turnaround point, use the tailwind and then down to Elwood.  From the Fitzroy Street back point it started to become a little harder.  This was about 22 kilometres in, my arches started to hurt again, and it was demoralising doing the out-and-back.  I kept going, not really taking much of the course in except wondering where Elwood was.  At that turnaround point it did get harder.  Not only uphill, but into the headwind, with sore feet, and mentally the most difficult part.

I kept plodding, pace into the six minutes now.  I told myself I wouldn’t walk.  As with each marathon I’ve done, kilometres 26 through 38 are when it feels like it would be so easy to just quit, jump on a tram/bus/Uber, and go home.  But it would feel awful.  So instead, I focus on not walking, and taking it a kilometre at a time.  My body felt good from a fuelling and energy perspective, it was my aching feet.

I remember thinking odd things, like how if I quit I couldn’t let Luana know where I was as I didn’t have my phone with me.  But I remembered she had an app that showed roughly where I was, and every time I passed a distance marker chip reader, I tried to send Luana a mental message, ‘I’m coming!’  I would touch my ring, or look at Lulu’s pompom on my shoe, for a bit of encouragement.  At 7 or 8 kilometres until the end, I switched to jelly beans.  Earlier I had had a moment where I thought I brought too few gels for my run; thinking I had 4, one every 45 minutes would only get me to three hours.  But I remembered I had another gel block with me, and was quite proud of my race planning.  But, 45 minutes to go was the time I opted to switch to sugar.  It helped, it gave me some boost, but didn’t cure the foot pain.  I remember thinking I wished I had painkillers.

The last four kilometres I picked the pace up a bit, knowing the end was near.  Melbourne is such a demoralising course, consisting of one huge out-and-back, and about four minor ones within the big course (Albert Park, Albert Park pit straight, Beaconsfield Parade / Beach Road, and Birdwood Avenue).  It’s hard work when you get to about 15 kilometres left, as while that’s not far for a training run, and is easily doable, when you convert it to time still to go it is about one to one-and-a-half hours, making it feel like a long time out there.  Even at four kilometres left, twenty minutes to go can feel like a stretch.

On your marks
About two ks out I really lifted, back to 5:3oish (I turned my pace off about halfway, resigned to going at pain pace rather than race pace), to try to break 4 hours.  I was about four minutes off, too much to cover over a few kilometres, but still went fast.  Entering the MCG, I took off my hat and sunglasses, so that Luana could see me.

I saw her!  She was waving and jumping and grinning in her green hoodie that I was spotting for.  With 100 metres to go, I detoured off the running path and went over and gave Luana, mum, dad and Luana’s mum high fives.

This is what made it the best marathon.  My family were all waiting and smiling and happy!  I had blown past my target time, so I just enjoyed the experience.  I felt great physically, and I was having fun.  But, I’m a little annoyed with myself.  I wasn’t breaking four hours or a PB, so what was another minute?  Why didn’t I stay and give Luana a hug and sweaty kiss?  Why didn’t I savour the MCG a little more?  I’m not entirely sure, maybe my cognitive skills were bit exhausted, but I feel I should have stayed out there and hugged and thanked her and my family.  I think I was still stuck on the four-hour target, however, and that got in the way of me enjoying myself more.  For that, I’m disappointed in myself that I didn’t just let it go and savour the moment, and to show that I appreciate what they did in waiting for me, waking up early, and supporting me.  Perhaps it’s good way to learn a lesson.

The moment I saw her
So, while destination marathons are more fun, I will probably be back for another Melbourne 42.2.  To enjoy myself, and to give Luana a sweaty hug and kiss and let her know how much I appreciate her.  For her to know I’m proud of us, happy for us, in love.

Having run the marathon, I know I ran below my capability.  My body feels comfortable which is an amazing feeling after a marathon!  My legs are a little sore, but in a good way.  My feet were the constraint, and once I figure out the cause (I think it’s because my shoes were only run in for 20km prior) then it’s onto the next… maybe Great Ocean Road 2017.

The camera sees all

How did the second most powerful person in the world outsmart the most powerful person?

“You see, Frank, you might be the most powerful CEO in the world, but that means you aren’t the smartest.”

“Oh?  Enlighten me, please.” Said Frank, making sure his mic was off once they were offstage, and not bothering to hide his disdain for this banal conversation he was having with Cristina, the CEO of his lagging competitor.

“Because power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, as the saying goes.  We don’t take our customers for granted, we don’t bribe regulators to win contracts or market share, we pay our taxes.  We will always remain second, but forever fight for first.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Cristina,” said Frank, smirking, “but that just sounds like sour grapes.  From someone who has lost.”

Frank turned and walked away, adjusting his cufflinks.

“Check the headlines, Frank.  We weren’t the ones investigated, you were. And look what they found…”

Frank stopped walking and stood with his back to Cristina.  They were alone, backstage now, as the conference continued after their terse keynotes.  Frank pulled his iPhone from his pocket and noticed thousands of notifications, tagging his company as well as #fraud, #corrupt and #criminal.  He scrolled quickly, absent-mindedly saying “Whatttt the…?”  Then, looked up to Cristina.  “How?”

“Second place has it’s benefits.”  Said Cristina, and walked away.



Closer to Tasmania than Melbourne


Last Thursday we drove the two and half hours from Melbourne to Foster, to stay the night before a three day expedition around Wilson’s Promontory.  Luana surprised me the month prior, as a birthday present, with a Deuter 50L hiking pack, Suunto compass, aircraft-grade aluminium cutlery, dry bag and hiking map for The Prom.  She had also organised a night at the Wilson’s Promontory Lighthouse for the Saturday the twentieth of August.  Exciting!

So, after a week of unseasonable winter warmth (21 degrees!), and a few trips to Bogong Outdoor Equipment for essential camping supplies, we were spending our Friday night at an AirBNB packing our packs.  I did the boy / Alexander thing, and focussed exclusively on packing my bag, drawing on my Air Force and military memory banks , trying to recall what was helpful, necessary, and unused on these sorts of trips, and the optimal packing arrangement.  This left poor Luana to work her pack out on her own.  Eek.

The forecast was dismal.  This weekend would see the end of the warmth, and the last surge of winter, with rain scheduled all weekend and temperatures dropping to the single digits.  That added to the air of anticipation, and slight nerves, that we both felt.  After a hearty breakfast with Noel at his Bed and Breakfast, and some words of encouragement mixed with warnings, we were on our way to Tidal River, after a brief last espresso coffee at the Yanakie General Store.

Thirty minutes later we checked in at the Tidal River Ranger Station, with more nerves building, and were reassured by the kind ranger who didn’t seem phased by the weather forecast.  We were presented with two options for the trek to the Lighthouse; inland or the coastal route.  We chose the coastal route, as it sounded more scenic and interesting, and because it involved a river crossing.  The ranger did express some concern about our choice, ‘Have you checked the tide charts?’ She asked.  ‘No.  Why?’  To which she checked the charts, noted that high tide was in about four hours, and advised that it’s best not to cross within an hour of high tide.  Luana and I shared a slightly worried glance, and telepathically communicated that we needed to get a move on!  After receiving the final confirmation and print-outs from the ranger, she wished us well, and we were back outside saddling up

Pack secure.  Garmin on!  And, we were off on our hike.  Wait… a toilet stop.  Then off again! We took a selfie photo at the start, to see if we would still be smiling at the end (I was confident we would be).  The track was relatively easy, and we could see the ocean before long.  The trail followed the coastline to Oberon Bay, where we hiked on sand for a few hundred metres, and then back to the trail before reaching the river crossing at exactly an hour before high tide.  We realised we couldn’t go around it after some back and forth, so looked for the narrowest crossing.  With my longer (uninjured) legs, I realised I could leap the sandbanks and cross the stream that was rapidly rising.  The first time I took my pack across, and the second I carried Luana’s, while she removed her boots and crossed barefoot.  As soon as she reached the other side, with wet feet, the rain started.  Heavily.  I rapidly put my rain shell on (thanks Mum!) and didn’t get any wetter.  From this point, the hike got progressively harder.  We continued in the cold rain.  All uphill, mostly on dirt road, to Halfway Hut.  There was actually a little hut there about two or three hours along which provided some shelter, where we had tinned tuna lunch, and froze.  It was pretty miserable, but we knew we only had ten kilometres or so to go; two hours!

IMG_9557.JPGAs we trudged uphill, there was a junction where we could continue on the dirt road, or take the walking track, which was 1.7 kilometres shorter.  Easy decision, the eight-to-go was suddenly only six!  But… we very quickly learned that longer isn’t always worse, and shorter isn’t always better.  Those first two kilometres of the walking trail were tight, steep, undulating terrain, and very hard work.  As Luana told me, ‘you tried to be the hare,’ in a truth is stranger than fiction fable and revelation.

IMG_9565At the half-marathon distance we could see the lighthouse through the wind and fog and rain.  We knew we didn’t have far to go, but were also wary of the dire warning we’d received from two people, that ‘the last 400 metres are Hell.’  Trying to understand what that meant, we spent two kilometres speculating whether we would have a steep uphill section, before I confidently declared that I didn’t believe it.  I ate my words from kilometres 22.8 to 23.4 as we climbed a monstrous path consisting of 68 vertical metres.  Each step brought us closer to the lighthouse as the light was fading and the clouds and fogs thickening.  As we ended our climb and I pondered where to go among the lighthouse ‘village,’ Luana pointed in the right direction and we entered the rangers’ cabin behind the wombat.  Renata and Noel greeted us excitedly and warmly.  Both were checking to see if Luana was alive under her rain shell, hood and listing backpack.  Renata rushed us to our cabin, turned the heater on, said we could tour the lighthouse tomorrow, and let us be to warm up!

Bags, boots and wet clothes off.  Straight into the shower to warm up.  It was AMAZING.  Heat steaming away our cold and warming our core.  This was camping!  I got out first, dried off and put on toasty warm clothes.  As I was hanging up some wet clothes in front of the heater, I heard, ‘ARGGGHHHH!  Alexander!  Eeeeeeeeeee.’  I slowly said, ‘What is it Honey?’ expecting a spider.  No answer, except more distressed squeals, and as I entered the bathroom where Luana was drying herself, I spotted a leech on the basin.  A tiny, black slug, squirming away.  I gingerly trapped him in a soapbox and threw him away, while for the rest of the evening Luana was on leech spotting alert.  I had to check her hair, body, clothes, bag, etc. as she looked for leeches.  At one point as we sat on the couch, I noticed blood on my finger.  Curious as to where it came from, as I thought and searched for a leech incognito without Luana noticing, a happy fat one dropped off my calf onto the carpet in front of us as we sat on the couch.  Realising Luana would not only freak out, but that she was correct in her hypothesis of ‘where there is one leech there are two,’ I did the old <pretend to stretch> in order to pick the leech up unawares, and then guiltily stood up to throw leech number two away.  Amazingly, Luana didn’t notice.  I wondered whether to tell her, and when I asked her, ‘So, if there were two leeches does that mean there would be three?’ as a possible segue, to which she replied, ‘Yes!’ I opted to keep my secret to myself.

Hot coffee, red wine, cup-of-noodles and hot sauce and we were feeling great.  We’d wandered outside during the brief lull in the weather to watch the sunset, say hello to to the wombats, and admire stark location we were at.  The two local wombats have a burrow in the garden, and they keep the grass perfectly manicured to about five millimetres (the distance their teeth can reach).  They were very tame, too, both the younger male and the grey, older female.  The young male continued to chomp and chew as Luana went close, and patted him.  She encouraged me to do the same, but Alexander the Emu was a little scared and deflected it by saying ‘one shouldn’t touch wildlife.’ Luana was too smart for this, ‘But you want to.’ she said.  Hmm, she had me on that.  I crept in close, reached my hand out, and patted him.  He hissed at me, and I retreated!


That night we enjoyed hearing the bullets of wind and the pelting rain on the windows, as the living room fogged up and the clouds soupened.  We went to bed early, a little sore and stiff, and enjoyed our last night in a bed and with walls and a roof.  At some point in the night, I woke up and saw the moon shining through the window.  I leapt out of bed to enjoy the view, and was astonished to see the waves breaking on the cliffs below as the moon lit the waves on the now-clear night.  I woke Honey up, who was less than impressed, telling her that she had to see the night view.

The cabin was incredible, by the way.  There are about three options at the lighthouse; the big house, with bunkbeds, the private cabin, or the smaller cabin.  We had the private cabin, which is a standalone house on top of a cliff.  The views from the living room look out onto the cliffs, along the southern coast of the Prom, while the bedroom looks to the east.  The cabin has a bathroom, shower, king bed, living room and full kitchen and is more than enough after a +20 km hike.


We then woke just before sunrise.  The sun was ten minutes below the horizon, turning the clouds pink and purple, and the sky orange.  Our lighthouse tour was less than an hour from now, and we were determined to enjoy hot coffee beforehand.  IMG_9571

Renata and Noel greeted us at 8am by the lighthouse as the wind buffeted us on the point.  The weather was remarkably clear, and the forecast of downpours today seemed unrealistic.  Renata took us inside the weather recording station and told us all sorts of fascinating facts and trivia about the lighthouse, such as:

  • This is the southernmost settlement in mainland Australia.
  • We are closer to Tasmania than Melbourne (240 km v ~270 km).  Redondo Island is only 7km away, and is considered Tasmanian waters.
  • The lighthouse is electronically operated and rangers don’t have access. The Australian Maritime Safety Authority (AMSA) visits annually for maintenance, and they usually change a lightbulb.  The bulbs are tiny!  Fresnel lensing efficiently magnifies the light emitted.
  • The AMSA team are too lazy to climb the steep path at the base of the lighthouse village, so they land their helicopter on the rocky outcrop next to the lighthouse!
  • AMSA manages a network of about 500 navigational aids, including traditional lighthouses.
  • The winds and waters at the base of the lighthouse are wild; mixing currents, easterly and southerly winds, all make this rather treacherous.

After a fascinating tour, we retreated to our heater, four wall and roof and watched the southern weather churn  from windy to threatening rain to sunny, rinse, and repeat.  We enjoyed another coffee and at ten am were in warm clothes, booted up, packs on and ready to go.  Garmin on, bye to Renata and Noel and it was down the hill.  Luana’s ankle was giving her some issues as the boots weren’t hers and constricted her ankle a little bit.  Oh, and she had a torn bicep muscle.  Oh, and her pack wasn’t hers – it was a hybrid backpack / luggage piece: definitely not a hiking pack.  But, no blisters, and despite being in a lot of pain, she just kept going for the three days.


We knew today was going to be a little tough as it involved paths and hills.  From Lighthouse to Refuge Cove, 848 metres vertically (the most of the three days, day one was 809m and day three 648m) and just over eighteen kilometres.  Mentally, it was the toughest day.  First, it was the inland and uphill segments to get away from the lighthouse.  These segments were very slow, almost 22 minutes per kilometre for five clicks.  Uphill and rocky and winding.  We seemed to be making no progress as we caught glimpses of the same bays and inlets.  Then it was downhill for two clicks to Waterloo and Little Waterloo Bays.  Seven clicks of sand, flat, and getting lost, including another water crossing.  This one was actually quite funny.  It was a stream about two metres wide, with some rocks in it.  We didn’t actually see the path beyond the stream and ended up backtracking along the beach for awhile, before Luana spotted it.  I went across , leaping onto the stone.  As I stood on the rock waiting to help her across, the sand she was standing on collapsed and her feet ended up under water.  I started laughing, because it looked funny, not because of her predicament.  Reminiscent of The Notebook when Ryan Gosling tells Rachel McAdams to ‘Get in the water!’ but in reverse in this instance, I encouraged her to jump to the rock to get out of the water.  She leaped, somehow pulling me towards her while she nearly ended up face-first in the water.  In what must have looked hilarious for anyone watching (there was no one watching), I somehow ended up leaping off the stone back to the original bank, without getting wet.  While Luana giggled and laughed at our situation.  We ended up crossing without issue after that, and we had about three kilometres to go until Refuge Cove.


Then the rain started, and we were going uphill.  This wasn’t just a shower, but a heavy downpour of icy rain, that peaked in intensity as we climbed the 150 metres into the unsheltered summit.  It was muddy, wet, slippery and cold, and we were hungry and Luana injured.  Her ankle made downhill hiking very difficult and slow going, and I didn’t help by saying something along the lines of ‘we have 800 metres to go, which will take us 45 minutes at this pace.’  Oops, sorry Honey.  As we entered the camping grounds, it started hailing.  We found a clearing within sight of the entrance, checked there were no trees overhead, and quickly unpacked the tent.

‘Do you know how to put it up?’ Luana asked?  ‘No,’ I replied.  ‘Why didn’t they show you at the shop?’  Luana asked.  ‘I didn’t ask them to.’  Pregnant pause.  ‘I’m sure we’ll figure it out…’

And we did!  It didn’t take long really.  A groundsheet would have been nice, but we were still waterproof.  We entered our dry shelter, got out of our wet clothes, and didn’t plan on  leaving.  I unpacked the Trangia cooker, and we prepared our meal for the evening.  The red wine was opened and we were warming ourselves from the inside.  Two minute noodles cooked quickly outside our tent, followed by mac and cheese.  Delicious.  The red wine went far too quickly, next time a quality cask-wine bag will be an excellent idea.  Sleeping bags were in good order (Luana’s zip didn’t work…).  At one point Luana spotted a wet leaf that she believed was a leech.  It wasn’t.  But she had spent the entire hike, and would again on day three, in an effective biohazard suit: socks tucked into leggings, rain jacket on all the time, hood shrouding face, sleeves watertight, and no skin exposed.  All to avoid leeches.

A quick exit into the rain to put our rubbish bag away, and then back in bed and lights out.  We awoke, or rather, I was awoken by Luana asking ‘What’s that noise?’ within an hour or two.  I couldn’t hear anything, then after another prompt, heard it.  A tin metal sound and scratching.  Some wild animal was going through our rubbish bag!  Torch on, which first revealed a tiny little mouse on the inner mesh of our tent.  We called him Mikey, and he clearly enjoyed the dry, warm and safe haven he’d found and would crawl around the outside of the mesh for much of the night.  There was also some rustling over by Luana’s side of the tent, outside, as well, where our packs were in the foyer.  But we never figured that one out.

I went outside, chased away a possum who had torn open our garbage and was enjoying leftovers.  And put the garbage away again somewhere more secure.  Back into the tent, and off to sleep.

‘What’s that noise?’ She asked again.  ‘What noise?’ He asked again.  ‘Something is poking me in my back!  There. What is that?’ And pointed at our packs.  Something was on them, inside the foyer, just outside the inner mesh.  Torch on, revealing a pink button nose and two cheeky black eyes.  Perry the possum had returned, poked Luana in her back through the tent, had unzipped my pack, found the zip-lock bag filled with nuts, and was feasting.  He wasn’t bothered by the torch light, nor by us and our gesticulations to scamper away.  I unzipped, shoo’ed him away and thought about what to do.  I exited the tent with the nut bag, walked a distance away, emptied the nuts for Perry to enjoy saying ‘Go away with your nuts’ or words to that effect.  This time, back to the tent, into sleeping bag, and off to sleep for a third time.

We woke in the light.  Luana was quite cold, and we gradually got up.  We’d survived the night camping in the wild, and today we would be home.  That was exciting in itself, but we had a pretty long walk today.

I prepared breakfast, knowing I’d be hungry and we’d need our energy.  Luana didn’t eat nearly enough, grrr.  I prepared water for the 1.5 litre bottle, but didn’t for the Camelpak.  This meant we’d be thirsty about 13 kilometres into the final 18 today.  Lesson learned.  The creek water may have been clean enough, but you never know.  As we packed and ate, these beautiful birds darted and sang around us.  They were so curious about us, and so unafraid to come close.  It was amazing; this beautiful bluebird sparrow, and his mate, and another yellow starling type.  There was also a stunning red-breasted bird at the lighthouse with spectacular colours.


Packed and off at about ten am again, to which Luana would have preferred we had left at eight am, so we’d be home sooner.  I agreed, but it was what it was.  Today’s hike started off much like yesterday, inland hiking.  Not as strenuous, but tiring after two days of it.  Oh, and Luana’s shoe broke yesterday.  The entire rubber sole was coming off at the toe.  This caused it to be caught on rocks, sand and sticks.  So we used her compression bandage at first, which was OK except for the ‘top knot’ which needed a hair tie to prevent it tripping her up.  Today we used a sock over the shoe to help it.  Quite ridiculous really!

As we left Refuge Cove via the other campsite entrance, we saw amazing camping spots by the water!  We accepted that given our morale and the weather yesterday, not finding these campsites last night was not the worst thing.  We had another river crossing today, which I didn’t know about, at Sealers Cove.  This one was a proper estuarine inlet, about ten or twenty metres wide,and we were there at high tide.  We agreed we’d eat lunch once we crossed.  We couldn’t go over this one, or around it, so it looked like through it was necessary.  I removed shoes and carried bags.  Luana behind me, watching and laughing as I sank deeper and deeper up to my waist, and the crows and seagulls cackled.  My only thought was ‘If I’m this deep, Luana will be in trouble.’  And she was, up to her midriff.  We stripped on the other bank, as the rain started lightly.  Lunch, and then a march home.  More sand, some hills, an amazing kilometres-long boardwalk through the marsh and mangrove-esque landscape, before a BIG final hill.  This hill was 230 metres up, extremely muddy, and slow-going.  It was tough work, but we knew we would be reaching a proper vehicle track soon.  The landscape quickly changed to higher-altitude, and there was plenty of evidence of past landslides and repairs on the trail.  Chocolate, snakes and snacks kept us going.  I felt Luana’s pain and am extremely impressed at her grittiness at just getting on with it.  At Telegraph Junction, the vehicle path emerged and we were on the downhill.  Then we reached a carpark and hit the bitumen, knowing we would be at Tiggy the VW Tiguan in four or five clicks.  Luana’s ankle ached, she had to limp, but we had our pace close to 12 minute/kilometres and were speeding downhill.  We’d had two other hikers at the carpark ask us if they could have a lift.  ‘Sorry, we walked!’ We said.  I had also learned my lesson that Luana is as stubborn as me.  After offering to carry her pack as it would ease the load on her ankle, and her ongoing refusal, in a moment of weakness I grabbed her pack early on during this day’s walk as she removed it.  I made it ten metres with her threatening a ‘Macy’s Moment’ tantrum and I had to give it back; her lopsided, heavy, wet, unsuitable hiking pack.

We continued down, getting closer and closer to Tidal River.  We entered the overnight campers’ carpark, and Tiggy was there, tail wagging and happy to see us!  We exclaimed, unlocked, hugged, kissed, and changed into dry clothes.  Off we went, happy, tired, and very in love.


Over the next week, Luana recovered, and I was a bit stiff as well.  Interestingly, we were hungry for the whole week.  My theory is that our bodies enjoyed walking and hiking for eight to ten hours a day, and had adapted to use energy accordingly, meaning our intake needed to match or exceed our output.  It was a slightly euphoric feeling, almost like a runner’s high.  I likened the feeling on Monday of grogginess and achiness to the same as after a marathon or endurance event.

We can’t wait to do it again 🙂


Latté Love

Latté Love

We live for these stolen moments.

Laneway sunshine,

Latte love,

Fleeting butterflies.


We feel trapped in our lives,

Trapped by our old lives.

But happiness,

Love, Beauty, Truth, Passion,

Are all so close


We only have to step together,

And no more stolen moments.

Just you and me.




This weekend I took a creative writing course through RMIT, encouraged by Luana and spurred on by having the time and space to explore my creativity in a form I love, writing.  I find it difficult to not filter my words, and the facilitator, Lucy Treloar, gave some helpful tips on how to express words in the manner in which they are felt.  In this example below, I was trying to use action and motion as the setting for something bigger and more emotional.  I would love to hear your feedback.

They trotted along the freshly manicured grass, telling themselves they were priming their muscles for the race.  Everyone knew, however, and it was secretly enjoyed by both men and women, that it was to show off their physiques.  Reminding me of stallions, the runners would powerfully lift their calves to their buttocks, their thighs bulging and shining through their compression tights, as they slow-motioned their way along the practice track, laughing and exuding a pretense of careless ease.  Across the oval was the racetrack proper, where every few minutes there would be a hush across the entire arena.  No matter where I stood, whether at the cricket scoreboard with the young teenagers flirting and romancing, to the pungent air of dim-sims and greasy chip food trucks, or amongst the bookkeepers who had never left the fifties, pencils in ear, visors on sweaty foreheads, scrambling to stay ahead of their ledgers; the official’s voice silenced all, “Marks… Set…” <CRACK>!  Smoke, pause, then a rainbow in motion as the frocked athletes thundered their paces.  Three breaths and it was all over, four and the crowd resumed their conversations, betting and walking along the outer circuit of the Stawell Gift.

I had just finished leaning over the barrier watching a heat, and pushed my weight back up to wander, admiring the athletes and wanting to be a part of their stable.  I turned my back to the track and saw her.  I couldn’t turn away, I couldn’t hide, although my brain tried to process how and where I might.  I was stuck.  I was close enough to see the ugly scar on her upper chest from the Hickman catheter, and felt a knot in my stomach that bordered on sickness.  Her hair was long again, much like when we first met but nothing like those last months, even year, we had been together.  And still dark, stained by the blood chemicals, not blonde as I wondered whether it may return, and as she secretly hoped it would.  My mouth was open, with nothing to say except ‘oh.’  My nerve faltered and no words emerged, or maybe it was the distracting glint and blur that came my way, reminding me of a shooting star that is only visible from the corner of one’s eye.  I heard the slap before I registered pain and realised I was again facing towards the athletes.  A thoroughbred had stopped in his tracks, such must have been the surprise and sound.  I turned my head back towards her as my mouth closed, in time to see the blinding sunburst again, as my hand caught her wrist mid-stroke.  I recognised the shiny gold ring we chose together, wondering why she still wore it.  I felt her wrist pulling my arm down as she fell in a heap, shuddering.  I didn’t know whether to let her wrist go, or to keep her dangling by maintaining my hold.  I sensed the crowds’ eyes on me as seconds turned into hours.  I kneeled down, my hand damp in her trembling wrist now, as I looked at her, terrified at what I might face behind those sunglasses.