the paddle

"The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature.” ― Joseph Campbell

The River

Freezing gale-force winds make for a less than ideal launch. We stand next to our loaded up kayak and gaze out towards the tiny islands before us. Wind chops up the surface of the sea. I shudder, zipping my rain jacket right up to the neck. We push off and the wind whips our hair over our squinty faces. Max begins to navigate us through kilometres of tidal tributaries which pull us towards the opening of the river. She is really good at this. I, however, am a solid rookie. Instead of focusing on what I should be doing (which is steering and paddling), I'm thinking about how much I want to eat the boiled egg in my pocket. In this horrendous wind, I am messy yet determined in my attempts to eat it, without losing my momentum and without Max noticing.

Tiny islands are scattered throughout the waterways; some uninhabited, some peculiarly occupied by cattle, ponies, and off-grid shacks. We glide past a tiny islet and a huge kangaroo stares at us lazily from the mangroves. He has bounded over the dry sea-bed on a low tide, but for now he waits patiently until the tide drops again, marooned on his own private island.

We hit the opening of the river and the wind eases. Thankfully, there are no tides or channels to navigate here. Life feels easier out of the relentless wind.

The river is a winding black snake bordered by bracken, paperbark + gums. In the stillness, everything is mirrored except for the ripples we make with our oars and the birds that soar above us. There are no humans. No passers-by in boats or canoes. No roads, inlets, traffic noise or motors. Only the sound of wind and oars slapping water.

Upriver, we pull into a tiny tributary. It is perhaps the most perfect place to camp. Protected, flat, remote and offering a ton of dry wood. We pull our gear up onto the bank. As we set up the tents, the wind whips around the tops of the trees, patterning the surface of the water. Afterward, we dive under the cool tea coloured water, cleansed and alive, forgetting momentarily that we any other kind of life than the one we are experiencing in this very minute.

Tents pitched, we eat a hot meal around a raging fire. We are on Bundjalung country, the moon is new and the energy is potent, timeless. I think about the original people of this land, where they stepped, what they grew, what they ate, how they navigated the river and how they lived. It is so quiet; so blissfully unoccupied that I can almost imagine this place tens of thousands of years ago.

We share stories and laughs under a canopy of a billion stars. Here, as we dig our toes hungrily into the dirt, we are anonymous to the rest of the world. And in the joyful absence of distraction, we have no other choice but to simply absorb the magic of the natural world around us. All of a sudden life feels incredibly simple + incredibly abundant.

The night turns cold and quieter than quiet and we warm our bones by the fire, unconsciously swaying our hips, rocking our wombs from side to side. Because the truth is, that no matter where we are + what we do, even when we hunger for rest from the mortal coil, something in our bones always remembers that we are mothers.

The Walk

In the morning, as a thick fog dances gracefully over the water, there is a particular quiescence interrupted only by birdsong. A rising sun paints the tips of the trees, breathing life into the leaves with golden hues. After breakfast, we repack the kayak and soon we are winding upriver again. Today we are headed for a specific location - a particular bend in the river, which just so happens to straddle a nearby trail. That trail, if we follow it, will lead us to a beachside camp.

Thanks to Max’s navigational skills, we make it to the bend in the river. The trail is close; we just have to walk through thick torso height bush to get to it. The kayak is easy to stash under an abundance of thick bracken. By some miracle, we manage to shift the contents of the kayak into our packs. The trail seems flat and easy to navigate…but we are yet to feel the hulking, awkward weight of the 20kg+ of packs and water upon our backs.

With each kilometre, I break a little bit. My feet and back and legs scream at me. Poorly packed items hang awkwardly off my bag and smack me in the legs + arms. There are no cars, no people to hitch a ride with. Gruellingly, we walk towards the coast, in the heat of the day, sweating into our hats and socks.

It takes some hours and numerous breaking-point rests, and we almost make the distance. I find some shade to collapse into and peel the monstrosity from my shoulders. We pant like thirsty dogs in the shade, desperately sucking water from the bladder hose.

Then - our ears prick up.

Right before our eyes, appearing like an archangel of god, a 4w4 chugs along the dirt road. And then, as quickly as the hope drains from our faces, it continues on… not even noticing that we are there. I want to run and flag them down but right now my feet are nanoseconds away from bleeding. I’m now almost willing to abandon this godforsaken pack FOREVER. Someone else can seriously have all this shit. But just as we resign ourselves to hideous blisters and eternal back issues, the car returns… and this time it drives almost to where we are sitting.

I run over before they have a chance to leave again. Enter Chester, a seventy-year-old local guy who has been coming here for thirty years. He casually offers us a lift and like enthusiastic puppies... we accept.

Chester drops us into the campgrounds in his beaten up Hilux. We thank him and then thank him again.

Walking without a shit-ton of crap on our backs gives us a dopamine hit like no other. We set up camp and head to the beach. Huge black rocks span the coast. There is no one in the water and no one on the beach, for miles. The wind and the water are icy, but we don’t care.

We spill into the freezing waves, cackling.

The Beach

The beach is a resting place for our bones + thoughts. We find deep rock pools straddling the ocean and watch the water slam into the rocks as they have done for aeons. The action is so repeatedly violent, but the rocks only become smoother, more tolerant. Just above on the cliff face, we find a nest of ladybugs all hiding out in tiny tree and grass shelters away from the wild wind. They climb onto our hands, up our arms, and fly around in the wild wind around us. It is only later that I discover the collective name for a group of ladybugs is a 'loveliness'. Indeed.

Camping amongst other humans is, in my opinion, rather hit and miss. With convenient access, comes all the pains of society that we often long to escape. Regardless, we enjoy our time at the beach. As the sun sets each day, we perch on top of the cliffs donning beanies + thermals and eat our hot dinners that are too, rather hit and miss.

The thought of walking back to the kayak with all of our shit makes me feel ill. Our load is slightly lighter after consuming the food + water, but the packs are still evilly heavy. We decide to hit Chester up for a lift.

“The fence to the trail is locked,” he tells us. “But I have an idea” he continues, “.... it’s not legal”. His eyebrow is cocked and his smile beguiling as if to question if I am up for breaking the law.

Oh Chester, you have no idea. I was born to.

The Long Way Back

The next morning, he picks us up. We chuck our stuff in the back of the truck and set off to locate the spot where the fence is locked. We drive just past it and then Chester abruptly steers the ute to the left, into a gap in the vegetation, allowing us to make it around the locked fence and onto the gravel trail. The three of us laugh and hoot. We bump along the dirt track and with a glint in his eye, Chester tells us he hasn’t had this much fun in a long time.

Before he drops us to the river, Chester wants to check out something he’s found on the topo map. And as we continue along the dusty track, lo and behold there it is. A beautiful sprawling billabong; thousands of trees stretching from the inky waters into the sky. The three of us stand in awe at the edge of the water and take it all in.

When we pull up to the river’s edge, we jump out and fill Chester’s ute with firewood as a thank you. He waves from his beaten-up truck and returns to the beach.

Our kayak has remained untouched in the thick bracken. We are psyched to have avoided a painful walk and with thoughts of a hot shower, clean sheets and a good meal, we are ready for the long paddle back.

We follow an eagle the entire way downriver. Each time we get closer to her she flies further downriver, only for us to discover her around the next bend. Curiously she watches + examines us, never flying far from sight.

As we pull up at the bridge, we have the excitement of little kids who are about to crack open a bag of lollies. From here, we can hitch into town and pick up the car, saving ourselves kilometres of paddling into wind. But the excitement drains from our faces quickly. Two shifty characters lurk at the water’s edge as our kayak glides in. They make small talk and shuffle their feet suspiciously. Water laps against an old fridge, dumped in the water near us. We have suddenly lost our desire to return to civilization.

Our muscles are burning just as much as our longing for a hot shower… but the telepathic consensus between Max and I is clear – there is no way in hell we’re getting out at this bridge.

And so off we go again. No easy paddle for us today.

We reverse the kayak into the heart of the river once again, and head towards the tidal, windy channels that we navigated some days back. With our last minute decision to avert the dodgy brothers at the bridge, we do not have the luxury to consider the tides, winds and currents. There is nothing else to do but deal with it. Instead, we stuff our face with trail mix and have a laugh. The muscles in our arms scream but there is nowhere to go but onward.

The current is in our favour, but again, we have a tormenting wind in our face. At this point, it would almost feel strange without some kind of encumbrance. After a couple of hours, the sun loses its intensity and the chill in the air has picked up…. and we are trying hard to not discuss how quickly the tide is dropping.

But soon we don’t care because we finally have a visual on our endpoint. We now see the glorious wall where we launched the kayak from on the first day of our trip, illuminated angelically by the sunset light.

Hallefuckinglujah.

We paddle hard now, fuelled by excitement and racing against a sinking sun and sinking tide. But before any home-stretch complacency has a chance to set in, a huge sandbank appears before us. We hiss some fuck-you’s to the wind but then, with no choice but to suck it up, we paddle around the sandbank, wind pushing into our faces. We are quieter in our banter and laughter now. We look and feel hardened; like muddy, wet, pissed off creatures of the deep, who just want a damn shower.

The water level gets lower and lower, before disappearing altogether. We are so close. We pull the kayak over the sand until it's deep enough again. Then, as we rocket towards the water’s edge, reeds and oysters gloriously jutting from the mud, we joyously erupt onto the shore.

❤️