September (and off again!)

I'm beginning to feel like a regular jetsetter, given that now I'm off again - to Tasmania this weekend. Although I'm not sure whether Hall's Gap one weekend and then Tassie the next exactly qualifies as jetsetting. Nevertheless it's fairly adventurous for me. Also adventurous is leaving my eighteen-year old in charge of hearth and home and incontinent dog. Especially as she's already informed me that she plans on having a little 'gathering'. What the hell is a gathering, little or otherwise, and how is that different from a party?

And perhaps the really sad thing is that if I had the choice, I'd probably opt for a weekend at home. Preferably all alone in my pyjamas with hot chocolate and a good book and my feet up on the coffee table. When did that become my idea of bliss?

September (off we go, a'wandering...)

By the time this post hits the blog, I shall be reclining on the decking outside a Deluxe Family Cabin (Self-Contained) at the lovely and picturesque Halls Gap. As the sun will have just breached the yard-arm, or whatever it does, I shall also be enjoying a pre-dinner drink, or two. But this will not just be a put-your-feet-up-and-relax type getaway - no we'll be up there on serious business. Hiking, that is. And also touching base with my fellow Kokodians.

We arranged this getaway several months ago, and picked Halls Gap for the hills and dales and whatnot. Unfortunately for me I am actually not allowed to traverse any hills or dales or whatnots for another few weeks (recent knee surgery), and am allowed to walk on flat surfaces only. As this particular area is not known for flat surfaces, I figure that means I'll be doing a few circuits of the camping area and then it'll be back to the decking to await the return of my fellow-hikers. Ah, it's a hard life.

September (so not Aquarius)

I have decided that my star sign - Aquarius - is quite definitely a faux pas (possibly because I was due weeks earlier but couldn't be bothered moving). Because as a water carrier I'm an absolute failure. In fact, I'm probably the furtherest from a water carrier that a person could possibly be. With a bladder the size of a stunted pea, I'm barely able to carry a few drops before the damn thing is full and I go staggering off to find the nearest loo. Which, I've come to realise, is going to make the Kokoda trek a trifle tricky.

And there are a range of other minor peccadillos that may well make the endeavour interesting, to say the least. Like my addicton to Nicotine chewing gum (although I'm currently battling that one), or my dependence on good coffee at frequent intervals, and my need for absolute silence before falling asleep, and my incessant email-checking habit, and my fussiness about food, and my daily desire for cleanliness in the form of showers and soap and fresh clothing, and my partiality to crockery and cutlery and blow-drying my hair each morning (and applying a sufficient amount of PPS Matte Mud to give it that attractively ruffled, sticky-out look), and last but by no means least - my absolute penchant for my own bed (and my own pillow and doona and entire bedroom).

No, I'm not having second thoughts. Just being realistic about my foibles. Which, I've come to realise, have built up quite considerably over the years (certainly since those far-off days when I was quite happy to camp on the side of the road or even sleep in the back of the car). But there's good news as well - I have now lost five kilos (yeah me!) and my knee has mended to the point of being able to bend without me clutching at my hair and screaming obscenities. Which, I'm guessing, will prove quite useful when climbing all those hills and dales and over-the-top cliffs next year. And, who knows, may even go some way to offsetting all the other stuff. One can only hope...

September (reality TV - and me)

This last week has been a particularly pleasant one for my extended family because, for the first time in a while, we do not have a single person (a) in a hospital, (b) about to be admitted to a hospital, or (c) waiting to be picked up from a hospital. As you can imagine, this makes for a more relaxed family atmosphere all round.

Once apon a time, the hospitalisation of a family member meant lots of waiting and worrying and then (if all went well) lots of visiting and flowers and corny get well cards. Nowadays it still means all that plus a relatively new phenomenon - the need to be hyper-aware of an all-seeing, all-knowing hazard that stalks the corridors of select medical institutions, silently searching for suitable quarry, particularly those made susceptible by a surfeit of emotion. Yes, that's right, I'm talking about the dreaded reality TV crew.

My personal experience happened several weeks ago, when my sister was admitted to the ICU at the Alfred Hospital. On the first day, the entire family congregated en-masse in the waiting room (mainly because at that stage it looked like we would be saying goodbye), but fortunately the patient rallied during the afternoon. As she was to remain in an induced coma for at least a few more days, it was decided we would take it in turns visiting. The next day, Sunday, was my turn. First though, I decided to do my usual Sunday morning trek up the 1000 steps - apart from keeping up the training, it would give me a chance to clear my head. Then, as this little jaunt ran (metaphorically speaking) a little later than usual, I decided to skip my shower and anything else unnecessarily time-consuming. Like basic grooming. After all, it wasn't likely that I was going to run into anybody I knew. And in this, at least, I was quite correct.

You've probably guessed where this is heading, but picture it if you will. Still dressed in my walking gear but with a cardigan thrown over the top. Chosen - quite evidently - for comfort rather than class. Flushed face with nary a skerrick of foundation, sweat-slicked hair adhering itself to my scalp like a second skin. Plus of course, with all that was going on, it's not like I'd slept all that well and when I don't sleep well, it instantly adds about ten years to my age. Maybe even fifteen. I also, in some strange way, appear to shrink. In short (ha, ha), I looked like an elderly bag lady with chronic medical problems and bad dress sense.

Mind you, I did have a perfectly good chance to escape. As I rounded the corner to my sister's ICU cubicle and saw the microphones and cameras and all the other paraphernalia that clearly indicated television, I could have turned tail and ran, or at least hobbled, away. But the thing is I was so damn tired that nothing really registered and so I stood there, mouth agape, looking like an imbecile. Ergo: a perfect candidate for reality television.

And so now at some stage next year I get to see myself, in all my sartorial splendour, on a new Channel Nine medical documentary. I shall be the weird-looking one co-starring with the woman in the induced coma. And you know you've got problems when a person in a coma, just this side of the great divide, is looking far better than you are.

September (training begins)

This month I finally start training. Even though we have tentatively settled on Anzac Day 2010 as our time to trek, a casual glance in the mirror tells me that even nineteen months may not be enough to get into shape. I begin with a mental assessment of my current state (classic procrastination - one of my strong suits). I am 48 years old, and at least ten kilos overweight. I am probably at my lowest level of fitness ever (apart from, perhaps, immediately prior to giving birth to each of my offspring). On the plus side, I did give up sm0king over ten years ago, but unfortunately I replaced it with an addiction to nicotine chewing gum (preferably mint flavoured but I'll settle for citrus in a pinch). I also have chronic headaches from prior neck damage, problems with low blood sugar, a bladder the size of a deformed pea (no pun intended), a dodgy calf muscle in my left leg and severely flat feet (although they might be a plus with all those Kokodian cliffs).

Not altogether encouraged by this mental assessment, I decide to be more pro-active. So I begin by drawing up a chart with my current weight (82.5 kilos [gulp], and as I have one of those you-beaut scales that also gives extra info, I learn that 43.6% of me is fat and 36.6% is liquid. This does not seem a good ratio. Clearly I need to drink more). Quickly moving on, I name today 'day one' using a nice font that I shade artistically with red and black pencils. This immediately gives me a sense of achievement. I now feel motivated.

I clamber on the exercise bike but only last six minutes and twenty-three seconds before deciding that perhaps the treadmill is more suited to my current level of fitness. Unfortunately this turns out to be stultifyingly boring so instead I exercise by moving it into my bedroom in front of the spare television. To finish up, I decide to run up and down the front stairs ten times. On the ninth upward run, with my vision rapidly blurring with exhaustion, I trip over and strike myself across the bridge of my nose on the concrete edge of step number six.

With tears streaming from my eyes, blood dribbling from my nose and obscenities spewing from my mouth, I stagger back into the house. Now I'll need to add a nose job onto my wish list.

September (research)

This month I decided to do some research into the Kokoda Track itself. I would have begun training but felt it was more important to first arm myself with knowledge because knowledge is power. And I like power. With the aid of the Internet, I started with geography and soon discovered a level of personal ignorance that was almost embarrassing (I'm not sure why I was so surprised - when I joined the RAAF straight from school, I thought Perth was somewhere in Queensland - which would no doubt have come as quite a surprise to most Western Australians. But Sir Joh Bjelke Petersen was the premier of Queensland at the time so perhaps I just saw him as an all-embracing kind of chap).

It turns out the Kokoda Track is in Papua New Guinea, and runs for about 100 kilometres through the Owen Stanley Ranges. It became part of Australian folklore when the Japanese decided to trek along it down to Port Moresby, and were prevented largely by a vastly out-numbered Australian force. Aided, of course, by the heroism of the native Papua New Guineans. While I already knew that Kokoda was a tale of extreme bravery, of comradeship, and of victory against the odds, the details themselves are well worth reading. So many of the men were barely more than teenagers, and the conditions so unbelievably harsh (a good site for an overview is http://www.anzacday.org.au/history/ww2/bfa/kokoda.html)

After a few hours reading all about the campaign, I went back to geography and found out that the Kokoda Track, which is a single-file trail in most parts, runs along some of the most rugged and isolated terrain in the world, reaching a height of 2,250 metres and combining hot, humid days with intensely cold nights, torrential rainfall and endemic tropical diseases such as malaria. Not to mention those leeches. I think I need a drink.