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When We Were Laughing
In 2001, myself,
my beloved Jani, along with two friends, Peter Fitzgerald and Marilyn Valis
undertook the feat of trekking to the very summit of Mt Larcom, near Gladstone,
in Queensland. The epic story of that day is hereby recounted.
IN my humble
opinion the one proper thing to be doing at five o’clock on the Sunday morning
of a long weekend involves a horizontal posture, closed eyes and a total and
complete lack of consciousness. So the
fact that about that time I was sitting on the edge of a bed, somewhere in
Gladstone, fumbling dimly for my first caffeine-jolt of the day and cursing all
geological formations may be taken as either a sign of my total and extreme
stupidity or the devotion in which I hold my lady-love, known henceforth in
this piece as MLL.
For
it is she who arranged this ascent, and who, furthermore, was now standing by
the bed already fully dressed, bright-eyed (a rinse of contact lenses can work
wonders) and with her red hair catching the early morning (with the accent on
the “early’) light with a Titian intensity.
Anyway,
either sleep or bedroom athletics were out of the question. Breakfast was offered, but while I make
little claim to be a civilised being, breakfast in what I regard as the middle
of the night is something not to be countenanced. Even the click of the lighter as I fired up
my first cigar of the day made what seemed to be an explosion of Hiroshimic
proportions. And yes, I know I should
give it up. But at that time in the
morning, it was too dark, and I too autistic to notice MLL’s look of
disapproval. And she was too
preoccupied, anyway. She was busy
psyching herself up to slay a demon.
This
particular mountain, you see, has brooded over her life since childhood. Her mother climbed it, in the days when
mountaineering was mountaineering,
with no convenient well-worn trails, nylon parkas, mobile phones or the other
accoutrements of soft early 21st century living. The baby-boomer generation, it is universally
acknowledged, is soft and effete. By
conquering this natural fortress we would not only be proving something to
ourselves, but striking a blow for an entire generation. It would have been nice to say that these
noble thoughts filled my consciousness as I stubbed out my cigar in the
ashtray... but I was too busy wondering if I could get away with feigning
illness and crawling back into bed.
The
sound of a car engine outside, however, cut off even this dishonourable line of
retreat. Our co-climbers had arrived:
Peter, a former SAS member, who throughout the climb would carry the laurels of
being the only member of the party who actually knew what he was doing, and
Marilyn, his own version of MLL, who looked almost as bleary-eyed as I did.
******
Mt Larcom,
according to the best information we had been able to gather, was something
like 650 metres above sea-level, and therefore, even by Australian standards,
not exactly in the Everest class. It was
not, technically, according to Peter, a mountain at all, more of a hill. I asked him why, in that case, they called it
“Mt Larcom” but I knew the answer before I received it. Australia, being the world’s oldest
continent, and having suffered most erosion, has had most of its mountains worn
down. All things, after all, are
relative. Certainly the thing looked
formidable enough as we gained our first sight of it, after a rather hectic
drive past the mud flats, the power house and then along the road to Targinnie,
MLL at the wheel, dodging errant wallabies and listening to Gladstone’s one
rock station. There it was, looming up
above the horizon in a defiant challenge, mocking our feeble pretensions. Our domination over the lesser animals, our
symphonies, great art and poetry, our engineering feats, all faded into the
background. “I was here long before you
puny mortals” the mountain seemed to be saying.
“And I will be here long after you are gone. And besides, I don’t have any trouble getting
up at 5.00AM!”
I
looked back at it... it didn’t look any smaller.
I
almost relaxed. Then we rounded another
bend and that damn mountain stared down upon us again. I stared defiantly back. The mountain was more convincing than I
was. I began wishing Peter hadn’t told
us it was just a hill. It might have
heard!
We
parked the car under a tree, and while Peter and I busied ourselves with
discussing important things like water supplies and the contents of the first
aid box, Marilyn checked our supplies of champagne, carried for the celebration
when we reached the top. Or as
consolation if we didn’t. Division of
labour indeed.
******
I might not know
much about climbing mountains, but it is my philosophical opinion that any art
can, with a bit of imagination, be distilled to the basics. Surely the idea, I had naively thought, was
to keep going upwards, until one reaches a pointy bit, at which juncture honour
may be considered to have been satisfied and the ascent accomplished. Therefore the fact that, led by Peter, we
began to head in a downwards direction fazed me slightly. Had we in fact already climbed the thing, and
I had slept through it? Had the others
in the party changed plans, and we were going potholing instead?
“Er...
are you sure we’re going the right way?”
I asked, tentatively. “I’ve never
climbed a mountain by going downwards before.”
“And how many have you actually climbed?” Marilyn asked. Funny how there’s always got to be a wise
guy! Or wise gal in this case. The fact is, I was a mountaineering
virgin. I suppose one has to be a virgin
at something. But it wasn’t a fact I
liked bruited around.
By
now, we had formed ourselves into an order of march that we were to sustain for
the entire length of the climb. Peter,
as the best qualified outdoorsman, leading, Marilyn second (she was the one
carrying the champagne, and we weren’t going to let her out of our sight), MLL
third and me last. Virtually as soon as
the climb had started, both Peter and I had picked up sticks, though how one
was to use it I for one had little idea.
“It’s a man thing” MLL said to Marilyn, who smiled knowingly in
agreement.
By
the time we reached the bridge, about five minutes from the car, MLL demanded
the first rest-stop. While swigging
water, and being glad I hadn’t worn a jumper of any kind (for the day was, even
at this early stage, becoming quite warm) I lit another cigar, and listened to
the sound of the countryside. Somewhere,
a kookaburra laughed, or rather two of them, for the famous sound that, for
many, sums up the Australian bush is in fact formed by two birds laughing in
unison. There was a bellbird too, I
think. The scent of the gums was
wonderful, so much so that I almost refrained from lighting another cigar. Almost.
For after all, if the climb became a crampons and pitons affair I might
not get another chance. I hoped it
wouldn’t though... if for no other reason than that I don’t know what crampons
and pitons are.
We
began again, to see that the trail was now moving gently upwards, and at last I
felt I really was climbing a
mountain. On either side the ground fell
away in picturesque fashion, as our route took us in and out of clumps of gum
trees, long grass and patches of what looked like Mallee scrub, but which maybe
weren’t.
The
next turn in the track brought us to an anthill. “Wake up you (expletive deleteds)” screamed
Peter, bashing the mound furiously with his stick. I could understand his reasoning
exactly. If we had been dragged out of
bed, what right had those cuticle-clad antennae-waving creatures to sleep. The insects swarmed angrily out of various
holes and fissures, and we hurried our pace.
At this stage we were not planning to make too many enemies.
Already,
we were far from the sights and sounds of civilisation, and I began to wonder
why MLL, as well as a lot of sensible things, had brought along her mobile
phone. It was probably, I reasoned, that
it was by now an essential adjunct to her body and persona, rather like a
footballer wearing his boots in bed or a photographer even taking a shower
festooned with lenses.
Unlike
the days in which MLL’s mother had made the ascent, there was now a clearly
marked track, signposted with numbered metal markers in numerical order. Either some numbers had been left out or we
were following a rather eccentric route, for there were considerable gaps. I
took comfort in the presence of Peter.
If anyone could get us to the top and back safely, this noble Kiwi
could. I gave him the nickname of
“Sherpa Fitzgerald”, more a case of whistling in the dark than any attempt at
mockery.
By
now, the sun was beating down, and we were even able to indulge in light
conversation. We found ourselves examining signs along the way... a dead
wallaby, a burned tree, mysterious footprints both human and animal. The ground was becoming bumpy, and I was
grateful for my aged but much loved joggers, as was MLL who praised her
Colorados in terms that could have been used by the manufacturers as an
endorsement. I pretended not to notice
that the sole of them was beginning to break away... no sense in wrecking her
confidence at this early stage!
Three
quarters of an hour, and three MLL-induced rest stops later, we struck a ridge,
which as far as we could interpret the placing of the metal markers, would take
us to within a reasonable distance of the top.
The ground was sloping upwards now, and Marilyn was beginning to wobble
unsteadily. I feared for the safety of
the champagne. Peter scouted ahead, and
I ran to overtake the party, wanting to get some idea of the way ahead. “Show off” MLL remarked. “He isn’t even puffing!” Actually, I thought MLL had, herself, done
pretty well. For someone who spends her
days desk-bound, she had stood up to things nobly. I may be biased here of course... I might
have remarked before, but I hold this woman in more than normal affection. As I caught up with Peter he told me that he
had marked the way forward... it looked a steep climb, but not (excuse the pun)
insurmountable.
Jokes
about “Because it is there” and the
likelihood of encountering St Bernard dogs with barrels attached to their
collars were beginning to wear thin by now.
It was not all hard work, however.
MLL’s wonderful hair shone angelically in the light, the bush-scents
were overpoweringly beautiful and Marilyn, in her white shorts looked almost
cute.
“Nothing
to this lark” I thought. Then I looked
upwards again, and saw the top of the mountain, the peak sticking obscenely out
of the mass of vegetation that clung to its lower extremities. That last bit was still waiting. And even before we got there, there was
plenty of hard work.
Soon
it was time for another rest-stop, and as we perched on a convenient rock, MLL
and Marilyn exchanged cryptic in-jokes about their schooldays. I lit another cigar and drank some water, and
looked downwards. Climbing a mountain, I
had found, is the opposite of climbing a ladder... if you want to avoid
vertigo, don’t look up! Thus it was that I was the first to see the
approach of a muscular young twenty-something male trotting along as if he did
this sort of thing every day (well, he probably did), and accompanied by a
large and rather fierce looking dog, which turned out to be a friendly thing
eagerly moving from one to the other of us to receive a pat.
“How
far?” Peter asked.
“About
half way” He said, comfortingly. “Just
over this rise is a ridge, and after that you’re laughing.” He ran off, the dog yapping excitedly. His misinformation was to become the running
joke for the rest of the climb. “Are we
laughing yet?, one or the other of us would ask, as the road upwards got
steeper and the going harder. Marilyn
was a Catholic, so perhaps regarded this leg of the climb as a good
dress-rehearsal for purgatory. MLL was
beginning to waver, and Peter, whenever he looked back, had creases of worry
across his face. My own disquiet too was
rising. So far, it had seemed almost
easy.. the slow pace and frequent stops had ensured that I wasn’t tired, and
the winter sun was providing a perfect temperature. But that stark peak remained!
******
We had settled
into a rhythm by now. Instead of walking
closely, and bunched, as we had done at the start of the expedition, we were
strung out, rather like a defeated army straggling home. We could hardly, after all, get lost. It was at this point that MLL began to worry
that she had forgotten to lock the car.
I couldn’t resist reminding her that she had remote keyless-entry, and
the withering look she gave me was almost worth it. On balance, I was grateful that nobody
laughed... an avalanche would have been all we needed at that point.
The
vegetation was beginning to thin out ominously.
Nothing but a few straggly trees, couch-grass and many examples of that
amazing plant, the black-boy, which seems to thrive almost anywhere, and which
paradoxically is prohibitively expensive if one wishes to purchase one for a
domestic garden. Even its name is
suggestive of political incorrectness, and their spiky haircut gives them a
feral appearance which is almost human in the right light.
“This
pack’s getting heavy.” MLL moaned. “Junk some of the stuff.” I suggested.
“That mobile for a start. You’re
hardly going to need it up here!” She
gave me one of her famous looks... the sort that would make a lesser man
shudder.
We
took a final rest before attempting the summit.
Our “base camp”... the car... seemed far away. We were living...
this was, I reminded myself, the sort of experience I would look back on in old
age.
Much
to my surprise, I didn’t find the thought ironic. There is, I had found, a genuine joy in
taking on nature, a thing that had stood for time immemorial, and defeating
it. I began to think about the picture
MLL’s mother had shown us the night before, of when she and a selected group of
friends had made the same ascent... a stiffly-posed but somehow appealing
group, the forties fashions and monochrome rendering making the shot more
rather than less attractive. “We’re not that soft, us baby boomers” I
remarked. “We’re doing it too! You can do anything your mum can do, sweet
darling!”
MLL
really MUST try and market that look of disdain! She does it wonderfully…
By
now, it was almost like moving into another universe. The bare peak, which we had seen from a
distance, that had looked so forbidding and terrifying was now... well,
forbidding and terrifying. The ridge ran
out at this point, and we were on bare earth.
The track, such as it was, led through a fissure that even I, with my
sparse frame, could only manage by breathing in, and MLL who was (and I shudder
at her reaction when she reads this) the most generously proportioned of the
party negotiated the pass only with much difficulty and, I am ashamed to say,
humorous remarks from Marilyn and myself.
The gap segued into a steep upwards wall, with little in the way of
handholds, but fortunately some kindly soul with a thought for future
generations had left a rope. Peter
chivalrously helped up Marilyn and MLL, and we passed out packs up to
them. “Are we laughing yet?” panted Marilyn as Peter hauled himself up with
about as much difficulty as if he were stepping into a four wheel drive.
When
my turn came to climb the rope I encountered a difficulty that I had not
foreseen. Despite my emaciated
appearance my arms and legs are reasonably strong, and well able to bear the
weight of my ten stone body. The problem
was not the height, but the width. So
narrow was the gap that one was forced to combine the upwards climb with
wriggling through a tiny hole in the rock as the mountain curved around in on
itself. I managed it in a single upwards
thrust, at he cost of head-butting a tree that was waiting at the other
end. The soft cap I was wearing provided
little protection, and I was glad that no conservationists were around to observe
my actions.
But
even sconing myself was worth it. For as
we emerged, in the sort of rebirth of which Carl Jung would have celebrated, we
were treated to the sort of view that made the climb worthwhile. We were not yet at the top, yet already one
could see for what seemed like an eternity.
I could well understand why the ancients regarded their gods as living
on mountains... were I a Greco-Roman deity I too would ensure that I owned
prime real-estate... and prime real-estate this was. Position, position, position.
It
was, with no exaggeration, something of an epiphany. What must have been over four-hundred
kilometres away one could see a distant range of mountains, shimmering in the
haze. All around was a dizzying view,
the sort that made ecstasy well up inside one.
Green plains, decorated only by the occasional farm, town or city,
stretched away from us. Financial
problems, the fact that England were losing yet another cricket match, that my
car needed a service that I couldn’t afford, that my head was aching, even that
I was still four hours short of what I regarded as the requisite amount of
sleep... all these petty annoyances and problems fell away from
consciousness. Hilary and his ilk didn’t
need the “because it was there” excuse.
Anyone who asks why you climb a mountain obviously hasn’t done it!
It
had come belatedly, but it had come. We were laughing. I took off my cap, wiped the sweat from my
brow, and watched my MLL make the upwards climb on all fours, breathing in the
mountain air. Though the hardest part of
the climb was to come, it didn’t matter.
We could do it…would do it.
It
was still before noon when we made the twin peaks of the summit. I had braced myself for a disappointment,
half-fearing that the top of the mountain would not be as I had always imagined,
a point, but would level off, so that one had no real impression that one was
atop a mountain at all. I need not have
worried. Mt Larcom is no sawn-off
plateau, but a genuine mountain with real pointy bits. Two of them. And as I made the final effort and reached
the top I saw a mysterious but somehow fitting decoration upon the lower of
them. Two pipes, an upright and a
cross-piece, in the shape of a crucifix.
Whether this had been made as a celebration of the wonders of creation
or was simply some esoteric necessity of the local water supply, neither I nor
any of my companions had any idea.
Either way, it seemed a perfect way to mark the summit. It felt good to be so far from the doings and
creations of petty humankind.
We
looked across at the other peak... and there it was. Standing obscenely up from the highest
point... a bloody mobile phone tower!
Nothing like a sign of the times to wreck the romance of the
moment. But somehow, as we stood up atop
the mountain and looked around at a three-sixty degree panorama, it didn’t
mater. We could see how big nature
was... this mountain may have surrendered to us, but it was more than generous
in defeat, giving us the sort of view that stays with one for a lifetime. I followed Peter along the dip between the
two peaks and, lying down, peered over the side. Rather then the sense of vertigo I had
expected as I looked down, the ecstasy welled up again. A steep drop, dotted with black boys, a long
way down. Yet I felt safe. This noble mountain would let no harm come to
me. Surely it knew I loved it!
Down
below, the sound of a champagne cork popping brought me back to reality. MLL and Marilyn were spreading out our
primitive picnic. Rice crackers, fruit
bars, fruit, French cheese. If this was
asceticism, I was liking it! I gingerly
clambered down, accepting a plastic glass of champagne from Marilyn and
lighting a cigar.
“It
must have been a heroic effort, getting all the equipment for these pipes and
the tower up here along that track.” MLL
remarked. Trying desperately not to
laugh too much, we reminded her about the existence of helicopters. I stroked her red hair...
This
was living!
Photographs
which Peter took of the event with his digital camera captured only part of the
wonder and beauty of that view... my main memory is of climbing back up the
phone-tower peak and pirouetting, taking in the entire sweep of that wondrous
vista. Gladstone harbour to one side, a
clear view into the inland on the other, and what was probably Rockhampton to
the north. Peter joined me. We did not speak... just looked out over the
view. It was a moment to remember.
There
was still the descent to come. A descent
which, as it turned out, was punctuated by losing the way, uncomfortable stops
for urination among the nettles, both of Marilyn’s knees giving out forcing
Peter to act as a human crutch, desperate attempts to keep our footing among
the loose track, and the discovery of a marker with the number bleached away,
which we fondly imagined and hoped was the lost number sixty nine. And finding that had parked the car just
where it would be struck by the sun at
its hottest, turning the vehicle into a miniature oven. And I wouldn’t have missed any of it for a
share in the running of the Universe.
You
may wonder, gentle reader, what it is like, sitting six hundred plus metres
above sea level, drinking fine champagne, eating a picnic lunch, swapping jokes
and anecdotes, and gazing all around at an exquisite panorama of beauty. Truly I can recommend it. Try it, and I promise you, that even if you
have get out of bed at an unearthly hour, dodge wallabies on the way, squeeze
through fissures, bash your head against trees and scramble up bare rock to get
there, you’ll be laughing.
Eventually.
16 June 2001.
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