Response – Ideas in Nature

‘There’s a whole world out there, right outside your window. You’d be a fool to miss it.’ —Charlotte Eriksson

I wade through the knee deep river, keen not to submerge my backpack. The idea of changing into fresh clothes after I have set up camp is a fantasy playing from reel to reel in my head just now. Notable sweat drips down the crevasse of my back as the cold waters of the river envelope my feet. 

Red belly black snakes are out swimming in the river in full force. I watch them with confidence, thankful my father enlightened me on the fact a snake cannot bite you if it is swimming in the river, it has no leverage to attack. The reptiles pass by unimpressed. 

It’s hot out here. The great Australian bush has a reputation of being dangerously hot and dry in the middle of summer. Friends advised me not to trek out on my own in fear of the worst. Unlike me, none of them have grown up with the bush as a comforter. A place that has only ever bought me back to base. Familiarity sinks to the bones when I am back here. Dad’s here too. 

The slate is suddenly wiped clean when I am fully immersed in the bush. The every day flummox abandoned, life itself becomes lighter, brighter. Uncertainty carried finds solid ground, banality disperses, the days alive, the cacophony of the sunset birds can almost be interpreted. The smells of the crisp bush air mingled with the unending Eucalypts watching over me like guardians of the bush bring a certain delight. Most importantly though, for me, ideas return like a gushing torrent of white water from up river. 

It is ideas I come to replenish. Abundance my only confusion.

Drinking the last of my water before I boil enough for three more days worth from the river I decide, with the sun quickly setting, this lush flat now in front of me, some meters back from the river shall suffice for my home for the next couple of nights. The valley is protected from sun and winds and it looks like there is enough to explore on little day trips to keep me more than occupied. First, I unpack the contents of my pack. Next I clear the area of where my tent will stand of rocks and twigs to assure me of a good nights sleep. My tent is erected with ease ten minutes later. I spend a grateful moment contemplating just how many trips my humble tent and I have spent together. 

Living up to the promise I made myself I change out of the days clothes into loose fitting attire for the evening. My feet, the first to thank me for unburdening them of my boots. Putting my boots just inside my tent, so as not to attract any spiders, I take myself with fresh clothes down to the river for a quick bathe and towel dry. 

My legs ache. My body is not as fresh as it used to be, but it’s a worthy ache. I will sleep sound tonight. I draw water from the river to boil in my billy. I’d like to get the water boiled to drinkable before dark. I’d also like a cup of tea to settle the muscles into some semblance of familiarity. 

There is a crackling in the bush nearby. Possibly a wallaby, a kangaroo, or perhaps a wombat. I decide to ignore the noise and keep tending to my evenings meal. Who knows, that noise may be a goanna and I don’t wish to be face to face with a three foot goanna in fading light. There are many a bush fable about goanna’s, and out here alone I don’t particularly wish to find out if they hold any truth.

As I walked today, numerous ideas gushed into my mind. Some worthy, some perhaps worthy at some other time. I never stop to write the ideas down. It just seems to disrupt the flow. I walk with both inner and outer exploration filling my senses. It truly does bring a smiles to ones face. 

Being solo is necessary. Having ideas interrupted can be most inconvenient. 

I was remembering snippets of my childhood today. The snippets came to me out of nowhere. It has been many years since I thought of my father teaching me how to swim in the brown waters of the river. He also taught me how to catch yabbies from the dam,  I never seemed to master the trick of picking them up without getting snipped. My father always the one to rescue me from my wails, before the yabbies succumbed to their own wails in the boiling pot of water. My father, always close at hand to pass down knowledge back then. There may be somewhere I can weave these memories in, if for no other reason but as a tribute to my father.

I shall spend the evening by torchlight sifting through the new ideas. I shall write down those that push me too. I shall interpret what is needed and map out where this story, my story, shall go from here.