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| On Bushwalking in the Western Arthur's Tasmania | |
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My socks are soaked, my trousers, too, My singlet's damp, my shirt wet through; My hips are sore, my back is gone, But, doggedly, I soldier on. My shoulders ache, my knee's in pain, To climb up mountains is insane! The bitter wind is icy cold, And pierces bones now worn and old: My mate ahead call, "Not far now!" Not that I trust him anyhow. We climb through hail and sleet and rain, And then the snow sets in again! We struggle up the mountain track; I hear, nearby, a sudden crack: I stop and check my spine to see If what had cracked had not been me! I'm still intact, though very sore, I'm not sure I can walk much more! We stop and rest our bones a while, My mate can even raise a smile! "You know," he says, "Next Thursday, Phil, On our return it's all downhill!" I don't tell him I couldn't care, I just reply a simple, "Yeah!" We start again our wretched climb; My stomach says it's eating time. But, "No," says Ron, "We'll reach the top, Before we have our dinner stop." My hunger pangs will have to stay Till some time later on today! My neck is strained, my calves are tight, And Ron turns round, "Are you all right?" "I'm fine," says I. "And how are you?" "A little sore, but I'll get through." "We're mad!" I say; and Ron agrees, And pushes past some stunted trees. The both of us need several rests To calm our over-heaving chests. We puff and pant, then on we go, I'll never reach the top, I know! But then, at last, we're at the peak! But I've no breath to even speak! We sit and eat a welcome lunch, And the Ron says, "I've got a hunch It's only just an hour or so To where the camp-site is, you know!" But Ron has made a small mistake - It takes three hours to reach the lake! We set up camp, and then collapse, And Ron brings out some folded maps. "Tomorrow, if the weather's good, There's two more mountains that we could Climb up and see the splendid views." My body shudders at the news! Next day it rains - we stay inside, And everything that should have dried, That we'd left hanging on a tree, Is still as wet as wet can be. So we play cards for half the day, And hope the rain will go away! Next morn the weather's not too bad, A little better than we've had. We walk up here, we walk up there, And spend some time to stop and stare At all the marvellous views around, That in the Arthur Range abound! At last we struggle home again, Repeating all the aches and pain That comes from carting massive packs, Upon Tasmania's mountain tracks. But I forget the tortuous path When soaking in a welcome bath! And so, when later in the year, My mate, with grin from ear to ear, Says, "Want to come and walk next week To such-and-such a mountain peak?" "Of course!" I say. "We're pretty fit, A walk like that won't hurt a bit!"
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