About a year and a half ago, I dehydrated some food for a hike I was planning with my partner Evan. We were getting ready to set off for a section on the Bibbulmun, a thru-hike that starts near my home in Western Australia. But instead we put an offer on a house.
My ritual of walking would have to wait.
Instead I painted walls and hung pictures and planted plants in a vast sandy yard. The dehydrated food sat at the bottom of my freezer, slowly being forgotten beneath smoothie ingredients and zooper doopers.
Each month got busier, with a mortgage to pay, a garden to save from the hot summer sun (spoiler, there were a few plant casualties), and Tom, my step son, started school. School drop offs and pick ups became a constant in my life. I moved even further away from the spontaneous wanderer I have described myself as for the past decade, and became a strictly scheduled part time parent, riding our bikes to school every Wednesday and Thursday.
Each time I moved something in the freezer, I spotted that clear plastic bag with freezer burnt food inside and I was reminded of what I’d put on pause.
Not just a hike, but a life I thought defined me.
I am aware of my biological clock, and wanting to give Tom some siblings while he’s still young. But I always said to Evan before I try to journey into biological motherhood I want to do another solo hike.
Hiking has become my ritual for change. A rite of passage into whatever version of Louise I need to be.
With summer looming on the horizon, I realise my solo hike needs to happen soon. Fuelled by the desire to reclaim a sense of self amid the responsibilities of family life, I meticulously hack away at my calendar to carve out space for a multi-day hike.
I throw out my freezer burnt lentil pasta and dehydrate a new one. I put my camera on top of my worn red backpack and hoist the heavy bag onto shoulders that barely remember the pain of carrying it and set off, alone this time. Disorganised but knowing whatever happens, this hike will give me what I need.
Because that’s what hiking does.
My shoulders hurt quickly from carrying my heavy backpack, my hips feel red and bruised where my pack wraps around me, my feet are sore as they get used to carrying the extra weight. But through the pain, peace always follows. My mind wanders undistracted by phone reception. Birds call to each other locked in endless conversations. My mind is given the freedom to be bored and to meander from thought to thought long enough for it to reach new ideas. I reach the first shelter early, at 1:30pm. It’s a hot day and the flies buzz around as I make myself a tuna and cheese wrap. Marg, a fellow solo hiker says “you can tell it’s day one of your hike when you still have cheese.”
The next campsite is meant to be one of the most beautiful in this section, so I want to push on. It’s another 16kms to the next shelter, but I know I can do it. Plus fit and experienced hikers don’t stop at 130pm, jeez. So I hoist my pack that definitely feels heavier than it did this morning and walk on. 12kms later I realise I should have stopped at the first hut. Experienced hikers should know to start slow and give their body time to adjust. Jeez.
My feet are burning. But I have to keep walking. I will get there, and I know the pain will stop. I know that soon I’ll be eating my dehydrated pasta, watching the sunset through the gum trees and this pain will be forgotten.
The pain always passes.
“The shelter is full of kids on a school camp,” a hiker says as he’s walking past me. He’s hiking back out to a nearby road and his wife will pick him up. “It was so noisy and I realised I don’t have to stay here,” he says laughing. I don’t have that same luxury. I arrive as the sun is setting and try to find a camping spot in amongst the kids tents.
“Hey do you want to play spotlight with us?” A boy in a unicorn onesie asks as I hobble past. His full body disappointment at my “no thank you” reminds me of my step son.
I pitch my tent on a slope, with a big rock in the centre of it, on the last remaining campsite and tenderly take off my shoes to find seven large throbbing blisters on my feet (before anyone asks, no they weren’t new shoes).
Blister care is a contentious topic. I am a piercer. I sterilise a needle, pierce and empty these bubbles of pain on the slanted uncomfortable floor of my tent. I’ll let them air out overnight and I’ll cover them tomorrow to stop germs getting in. It’s a tried and tested technique that has never let me down.
The kids are screaming as they play spotlight in the forest and I wonder what I’m doing here. I was meant to be absolutely loving my break from life and parenting. Celebrating my momentary solitude. But instead I’m close to tears and missing Evan and Tom intensely.
With earplugs in to effectively block out the screams of children playing I fall asleep at 8pm and slumber until 6. And by sleep until 6 I mean I wake up every hour or so with a dead arm or leg and switch positions on my rock.
The next day, after climbing up a few escarpments in the darling ranges, with gum trees lining the red rock path, and wildflowers painting the crezoate landscape, my blisters don’t feel so sore.
Beauty always dims the pain of hiking.
A hawk soars overhead. I make a video to send to Tom and Evan. I take my camera out of my pack again and again to take photos of the wildflowers for inspiration to what I might add to my native garden. Thinking of the grevillea’s and acacia and banksia I planted last month in my sandy patch at home.
The path takes a turn down from the forested peaks, into a recently burnt section of the Bibbulmun. Prescribed burning minimises the risk of uncontrollable bush fires.
The trees still smell of fire and a few of them are smoking so heavily my heart races as I walk through it. Two years ago I sheltered in the pool as I watched my family home burn down in a bushfire. The memory of flames surrounding me rises up over and over again as each gust of wind picks the scent of burning wood up. I listen to a podcast to distract myself as I walk fast trying to get away from the acrid smell. The sun beats down through the leafless trees. My feet are on fire themselves.
I arrive sweating at the next shelter. The wind is blowing, and the smoking trees are close enough that I can’t relax. I should stop, and hike slowly if I want my blisters to heal but I know I can’t stop here. After lunch, I try to walk out in my hiking boots but the pain has become unbearable. My mind goes back and forth as to what I should do, but the memory of the bushfire won’t leave while I smell burning trees so I switch to my camp sandals and keep walking. Hoping they’ll support my feet enough to walk another 13kms to the next campsite.
It feels amazing to have found a solution instead of giving up. I don’t feel as physically strong as I have on my past hikes, with my bag weighing down on bruised shoulders. But there are so many different ways to measure strength.
I endure.
And more than that, I find meaning and purpose in my endurance of pain.
My blisters aren’t the only pain I’m experiencing on this hike, my womb is also hurting as it bleeds. If we lived in a matriarchy I’m sure strength would be measured through progesterone as opposed to testosterone.
I arrive at the next camp shelter at 530pm in my sandals with a whole new set of leg muscles aching. This section of the forest is finally what I’d hoped this hike would look like. No teenagers screaming through the trees. The sun sets, painting the towering gum trees with golden light. I know that I can keep going, but I’m starting to ask myself what the point is right now.
On every other hike I feel like I find myself, the person I am underneath my google calendar. It lets me feel free and untethered, and rekindles all of my old hopes and dreams and plans. With phone calls, WhatsApp messages, instagram comments and emails interrupting our train of thought constantly. Hiking and travel in general is my antidote to our constantly connected life.
The solitude and disconnection is what I’m here for. But for the first time in my life, being solo on a trip feels empty, like I’m losing something by being away. My untethered self suddenly feels weightless and at risk of blowing away with a strong wind. I need my anchors.
Parenthood and family life is often described with a sense of loss. Loss of sleep, loss of autonomy, loss of freedom. And becoming a step parent made me feel that loss intensely. But on this hike I’ve discovered I spent so long missing something I thought I’d lost, I didn’t realise that it’s not really what I want anymore.
Freedom comes in all kinds of flavours, and doing it solo no longer tastes as good.
I wake up at 4am the next morning and can’t get back to sleep. I have my morning coffee and decide to finish this section early, at Albany Highway. I’ve walked 60kms and discovered that this hiking season has ended. My body is a precious thing, and as I get older I respect that there are times to push my body, and there are times where it is acceptable to stop pushing and choose my body's longevity over its immediate display of power.
Don’t get me wrong. I warred with myself the whole way to Albany highway. Pushing through the pain is the motto of the outdoor community. I trust my body can push through anything it needs to. I proved that already when I walked the length of New Zealand. I proved it when I got stuck walking through an icy river and I completely lost feeling in my feet. And I know that three of my toes never fully recovered from that.
I don’t need to prove anything here, I tell myself as I turn right to the highway, instead of walking straight.
I spot Evan’s car pulling around the corner, here to pick me up. My worries about whether I made a mistake fades. Whether it’s because I’ve missed Evan, or because I know he’ll have the aircon blasting will remain unknown. But I do know my ritual worked.
I’m prepared to wait out a season or two before I get back on the trail. And I think next time I hike, I’ll bring my family.
Another way to support me and my work is through buying a print. Plus you get a pretty piece of art on you wall! What’s not to love.
Amazing and inspiring
I have always wanted to walk/ run the TA NZ and thanks to you I’m starting planning and training
Louise, thank you so much for sharing this story. One paragraph really stood out to me: "Parenthood and family life is often described with a sense of loss. Loss of sleep, loss of autonomy, loss of freedom. And becoming a step parent made me feel that loss intensely. But on this hike I’ve discovered I spent so long missing something I thought I’d lost, I didn’t realise that it’s not really what I want anymore." I've been thinking about this lately as well. And I do wonder if it might be because the passage of time tend to evolve us away from that thing we thought we'd lost? But I hear you on hiking and parenting as well. I love hiking. And I love parenting---though sometimes it feels like the two compete against each other. What do you think?