What springs to mind when you hear the word ‘smallgoods’? I saw it on a sign as I walked down the street yesterday and I ran through a few possibilities in my head. Underwear? Kitchen equipment? Haberdashery? But no. This is what smallgoods is (are?):
(image via www.postcards-sa.com.au)
smallgoods [smɔl/gʊdz]
Noun pl
(Australia and New Zealand)
1. Processed meat products e.g. sausage, salami, paté
2. Shop that sells same
What did it all mean, Eithne?
I wrote last week that reaching the summit of Mount Kosi wasn’t the big climax I might have expected. In fact the hike (or pilgrimage, for that is what it was) was lacking in big, dramatic, revelatory moments. The road to Tharwa did not turn out to be my road to Damascus. But looking back, I have realised that the small, quiet moments were just as important.
Take one girl and drop her in the countryside. Take away books, music, television, radio, work, shops, cafés. Take away some physical comforts like plumbed toilets, mattresses. Take away her regular intake of caffeine. That’s a lot of stimulation taken away. Result? Rather than having the deep thoughts and the important conclusions, I found my brain going still. It was quiet in there. Sure, there was some thinking. I thought about my feet – until I decided it was better not to. I thought about food and water. I thought about sleep. I talked to the other hikers. I looked and I listened. But if I had to point to a ‘big’ moment on the hike it would be the night we spent at Gungarlin River. Dinner at four, bed at seven. Asleep by a quarter past. Listening to the wind and rain that night and getting up at dawn to see wild brumbies. Not thinking about things, just being there.
One day, the day I walked 40km and things started to hurt, yes – that day I thought about some things. That day I did think about women walking to collect water, at least as far as I was walking, if not further. There was no great revelation, but perhaps for the first time in my life I understood a little of what that might feel like. Not wanting to walk, but walking anyway.
On the last day, on my way back down the mountain, a few thoughts ‘about’ the experience started to creep in. The phrase that kept repeating in my head as I sat in the chairlift was ‘the kindness of strangers’. I’ve thought about this a lot in the last three weeks (my brain isn’t particularly quiet now that I’m back to the caffeine and the work and the music) and this is what I’ve come up with: the bigger pilgrimage I’m on, of travelling the world and opening up my life, has made me appreciate the kindness of strangers as never before. Friends of friends who welcomed me everywhere from Harare to Tokyo; passers-by who pointed me in the right direction; new workmates who showed the new girl (with the funny accent) the ropes; fellow hikers who shared their blister plasters and their life stories.
The kindness I have experienced has given me new resolve to be the kind stranger. I will give you directions; I will give you a bed for the night; I will show you the best place to have coffee, a drink, buy a souvenir. I will offer you friendship, whether you’re in town for a night or a year. I will walk 240km and ask my friends and family to sponsor me. The money will contribute to the building of food banks in Malawi so people can better save and share their harvests with others.
So that’s three things:
1. Taking myself away from it all (really and truly away from it all) was refreshing.
2. 240km is a long way to walk.
3. The kindness of strangers is what keeps the world turning.
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If there's anyone out there who has thought of sponsoring me but not got round to it yet, you can still sponsor me at www.everydayhero.com.au/eithne
So here we were – the last day. Breakfast was followed by a briefing from our guide, and a reminder of the gear we needed: gloves, hats, snowshoes, poles. Feeling weirdly nervous (maybe having stuck it out and walked every day, I thought it might be my turn to be felled by injury) I got my things and headed out.
The Thredbo Lift Company had kindly provided us with free passes, so back in the bus we went to drive to the bottom of the mountain. Gear on and into the chairlift. The day was beautiful: bright sun, bright sky. Not much snow on the trails visible from the lift.
But at the top there was thick snow as far as the eye could see. (So much for my assumption that a) the highest mountain in Australia wasn’t that high and b) wouldn’t have much snow. Hey - do you think maybe there is a reason they call ‘em the Snowy Mountains?)
Snowshoes on – obligatory photo opp – trudged over to the path just visible in the snow. This metal grid made easier walking but the snowshoes were a bit of a liability whether worn (clunky) or carried (heavy). It was 6km to the summit and relatively slow going because of the snow.
We had a quick break for water with a view of the summit, looking like a perfect boule of vanilla ice cream.
Trudge, trudge, trudge. Some clouds coming down ahead of us. Singing hristmas songs to keep myself going: Sleighbells ring – pant – are you - pant pant - listening?
We stopped again at the base of the summit – more cloud but no snow falling so all clear to go to the top.
The boule was hard work. Steep, slippery, using snowshoes to carve steps. Every breath burned. Two thirds of the way up we came to a vertical section. With no purchase, people were slipping backwards. Using the points of my showshoes, poles, fingers (teeth, even?) I went up on all fours. Once over the hump we could see the top. We waited until everyone was together then walked the last 20m or so.
And how did it feel when we made it to the summit? Unreal. Surreal. Not quite the feeling of accomplishment I expected. But perhaps it hadn’t sunk in. That, or I was subdued by the knowledge that we still had to walk back down. It was beautiful up there, though.
Photos. Picnic. Then, after one last look around, turned to face the descent. The only logical way over the hump was seated. Obviously. Coat-tail tobogganing is excellent fun.
Trudge, trudge, trudge through the snow. Beautiful views of the valley. Thinking about how I felt now that the hiking was nearly over.
Almost before I realised it, we were back at the chairlift. On the way down I took photos of my feet and thanked the stars that I wouldn’t have to put the boots on ever again.
*
That’s the end of the nuts-and-bolts (blisters and porridge?) story. I have been thinking a lot more about what the hike has meant to me and will post about that next week. But this interpretative panel we passed on the way up may have a clue: everything is connected.
