by Fiona Wood
Breathe in. Breathe out. And again.
tuesday 16 october
In another of the combo ISMs they teach up here, Ms. Ladislaw takes a mash-up of physical education, orienteering, first aid, biology, and geography classes that they call: The Physical World, Theory and Interaction. She is pretty nice, but suffers from a severe nose-gub tic. She is always, but always, checking around her nose. Sniff, pinch, quick swipe with the back of her hand, numerous excavations with tissues, followed by more swipes and pinches and knuckle checks. I tried counting once, but got lost after fifty-two in about ten minutes. Blow, wipe, sniff, wipe, pinch, back of hand, knuckle can happen in a matter of seconds.
She knows her stuff, though. She’s smart and scary-fit, and has been teaching up here for about ten years, so benefits from older-sibling respect before she even gives her first class. And she is notorious for handing out painful physical-exercise punishments if anyone steps out of line. Because of this, and because people depend on the information she imparts if they plan on staying alive, everyone is basically okay for her.
So we know how to read a map, point a compass in the right direction (north), light our portable stove (the trusty Trangia), and pack our giant packs with appropriate amounts of food for the number of nights away. We even know how to look at the night sky and the sun’s position for information. Even if there’s no sun out, and we’ve crushed or lost our compass, we can use our naked eye to deduce direction, based on the side of the rock or trunk on which lichen is growing most vigorously, i.e., the shady side, i.e., south. Once you know south, you have north, etc.
Unfortunately, the maps don’t go anywhere useful. Where, for instance, is my map to last year, or a map to some part of my heart, or my head, that doesn’t hurt? Just round and round the mountains.
“We’ll be hiking along this actual line in about an hour,” I say, poking what I hope is the right part of the map spread out on the table. “Or that line? I’m not sure.”
“Can’t we choose which line as we go?” asks Holly. “The easy line.”
“We need to choose now, so we can tell them our route, so they know which ledge we’ve fallen off when we don’t come back,” I say.
“After you tell me what Ben said.”
“I told you everything last night.”
“But try to remember his exact words. Did he use the word girlfriend or boyfriend?
“No.”
“I’d take that as a plus,” says Lou. “Now can we please get back to the map?”
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Holly says to Lou.
“I give it freely when it suits me,” says Lou. “Never feel you have to ask.”
I’m warming to Lou. Not quite sure why phlegmatic is appealing, but I like the way she seems impervious to Holly’s spikes. Even I’m susceptible to them—and I’m her best friend.
“We seem to be ‘going out.’ I’m almost sure we’re going out. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” says Holly. “Are you going to use yesterday or the first-kiss date as your anniversary?”
Lou looks at Holly. “Are you kidding?”
“Anniversaries are important,” says Holly.
“Have you hired her as your relationship manager?” Lou asks.
“She’s doing it pro bono,” I say. It’s hard to see if Lou is more unimpressed by me or by Holly.
“Is Ben hiking this weekend?” asks Holly.
“I don’t know.”
Holly sighs deeply. “You have to get into the habit of synchronizing schedules if this is going to have any hope of working.”
Lou sighs deeply, too. “Can we make a decision about the route?”
We stare at the map again for a full ten seconds.
“Which way is up?” says Holly. “I mean, we’re here, but…” She is rotating the map slowly, frowning. “How does this relate to that?” She nods at the window: the actual world.
“Didn’t you go to the survival sessions?” asks Lou.
“Yes,” says Holly.
“Ladislaw kind of went through it then,” I say. “Last week’s intensive? How to stay alive? Compasses, et cetera.”
“Whatever. Did you two listen?” Lou and I nod. “Good enough,” says Holly.
“I sure hope you can cook,” says Lou.
Holly pulls a mean face out of Lou’s eye line.
“I saw that,” says Lou. She is madam of the even keel. No anger. No smiling.
Collecting rations from the dining hall is the next thing on the hiking to-do list. Holly and Lou and I head to the dining hall, where they dole them out.
Michael is there with Hamish and Doug, also heading off for a two-day hike in the morning. So Ben won’t be out on the mountain. Only one group per house is allowed out at a time.
“Anything decent?” I ask Michael.
He’s not happy. “It’s mostly canned, vac-sealed, or dried, and nothing looks like itself.”
“There’s fresh fruit, and bacon, steak, and cheese for day one,” Ms. Ladislaw is saying. “And mountain bread. Please do not forget to puncture holes in any tinned food before you heat it on the fire, or it will explode. What will it do?” She puts one hand behind her ear, and is vigorously wiggling the back of her other hand against her nose—hay fever maybe?
“It will explode,” we repeat back to her, like well-behaved zombies.
“All the pasta packs are one-serve, just add water, and heat on the Trangia. If pack-weight is an issue, I recommend you focus on these and dried fruit for your two-days. Gather what you need, and come back to check supplies out with me. Count up your meal numbers and snacks, add one meal in case you’re delayed by weather or injury. You’ll be burning lots of fuel on your hikes, so remember carbs and trail mix,” she finishes. “And don’t forget some cutlery.”
“How many emergency chocolate bars are we allowed?” asks Hamish.
“One per customer,” says Ms. Ladislaw. “And the cocoa is premixed with dried milk and sugar, so you don’t need to add any. I recommend you include it; nights on the mountain are freezing, and it’s a scientifically proven fact that cocoa and toasted marshmallows make the conditions more bearable.”
Lou is talking to Michael as she gathers her supplies in one of the baskets provided; they do advanced math together.
“Nerd girl meets brain boy,” says Holly.
How would I feel if Michael decided he’d go out with someone? It has never seemed remotely likely. But those two have already made a connection. Lou is smart, intense, and extremely private and quiet, but that wouldn’t put Michael off. Even though I don’t think of Michael romantically, I’m used to the fact of him liking me in a way he likes no one else. It’s part of my landscape.
Holly comes back over with her food basket. “Did you see the open samples? It all looks like dried spew.”
“But at least it’s not heavy,” I say.
Back in the house, we three look at our enormous, bulging packs in disbelief.
“Thanks for going first,” says Pippa. “We can really use the extra room around here.”
“Yeah, only we plan on coming back,” says Holly.
“Don’t count on it,” says Pippa. “All I heard from people who went last week is snakes, perilous rock ledges, and possible starvation due to foulness of food.”
“And yet they all returned,” says Lou.
“Or did they?” says Annie. “Perhaps they were ‘taken’ and we now have substitutes among us, just waiting for their chance…”
“When have you put down, Pippa?” I ask.
“Haven’t. I’m using the principle of going to the back of the line when it’s time to jump the vaulting horse in gym. It’s a strategy that’s always worked pretty well for me.”
“They’ll catch up with you, for sure,” says Eliza.
“Maybe, but by then I will have avoided a couple of hideous excursions into the wild.” Pippa pulls a Husk herbal tea bag out of her mug, drops it in the sink for some
one else to resentfully bin later, and with a serene smile turns her attention back to yet another phone-book-size glossy magazine.
We were supposed to have broken in the hiking boots by the time we got here. It was on our “Two Months Out” preparation and activity sheet. Looks like Lou has. Holly hasn’t. Who had time to clump around in these great heavy things during the holidays? It was bad enough dragging them on once or twice. Our little bits of lambswool from the supplies cupboard are supposed to provide a lanolin-soft buffer for any potential blistery spots. We’ll see.
It is amazing how quickly the whole campus has adopted hike-speak. You’ll get to the Bluff in four hours. Avoid the Sawtooth Spur if the wind is southerly. Don’t forget your shit shovel. Yuck.
The packs weigh a ton—tents, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, food, water, utensils. It’s like walking with an eight-year-old kid on your back. Roll on, first meal stop, so we can eat some of the weight. The rain starts pretty much as soon as we leave the school’s boundary. Despite waterproof everything, a steady trickle of rain tickles down my neck and blends with the sweat on my back. My feet hurt, and the pack straps are already digging in.
“When should we stop and rest?” Holly asks.
Lou turns and looks at her with derision.
“We probably need to try for the foot of Mount Paradiso,” I say.
Holly groans. “This is boring as shit, and it hurts.”
“Bitching about it should make it better,” says Lou.
“And why all the happy names—Paradiso, Fairweather, Merrivale?”
“Maybe they were being ironic. Or optimistic,” I say.
“Or just unimaginative,” says Lou.
Holly stomps on ahead in silence.
We clomp on. It becomes hypnotic. The rain, the pain, the one heavy foot after the other, the shoulder straps, the rain, the pain… A bird calls out with a sound that whips around on itself. A bellbird? How do birds stay dry in the rain with no lids on their nests? Are they waterproof? The sky is massive, even cloud-filled as it is—so vast without buildings eating up all the edges. I feel much smaller here than I do in the city.
After possibly the two most uncomfortable hours of my life, we stop for a breather, water, and a map check, and agree that we seem to be on course. I eat a handful of trail mix and dig out an apple.
Holly looks at me, snorting with a suppressed laugh.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“You. I was just thinking about the billboard.”
“What about it?” Surely we have exhausted this topic a thousand times over.
“How you’re so photogenic.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah—because it actually doesn’t look like you at all. I mean, look at you now. You’ve got the whole beetroot face happening.”
“Prize-winning backhand compliment,” says Lou.
“No one asked you,” says Holly.
I’m not offended. “She’s right. No one would recognize me.”
“I did,” says Lou.
“Well, you’re a suck-up,” says Holly. “It looks nothing like her. Why don’t you want to do some more? Like, get an agent and everything?”
“I just don’t,” I say, embarrassed.
“You’re tall enough. But you’d need to lose some weight—make the move from thin to skinny.”
“That’s stupid,” says Lou.
“Not if she wants to model.”
“Which I don’t!”
“Never say never. Hey, did you hear Falkner House is doing bulimia for fun?” says Holly.
“No.” I haven’t heard it, and I can’t believe it.
“I know. But they think it’s the only way they can survive a term of Elevensies. It’s just a dare,” says Holly.
“They can’t hike and run if they’re not eating properly,” says Lou.
“They’re doing coffee shots to keep the energy levels up,” says Holly. “They’re going for ten pounds in five weeks.”
“Idiots,” says Lou.
“I don’t think you know them well enough to judge,” says Holly.
“They’re treating a condition that makes people die as some sort of Biggest Loser joke. So, I know enough,” says Lou. “We need to pick up the pace a bit.”
Is she touchy because she is bulimic? Wouldn’t I know, seeing as we’re sharing a bathroom? Also, she seems so sensible. Maybe she’s got a friend suffering from an eating disorder. Have the others got this burning pain around the ankles? The hot, fat feeling of blisters establishing themselves? Why didn’t I walk my boots in properly?
What am I even doing here? Me, a city girl. Ninety percent of my life happens on one highly resourced page of the street directory. I should have been maneuvering my way out of this school long ago, seeing this on the horizon. It always seemed to be so far off in the future—until now. Now it’s got me in its zealously healthy stranglehold.
This will take forever to get used to. By then it will be time to turn around and go back home. So, classic time-waster. My giant boots plonk along like mud-clogged hoofs, every step a challenge to balance already made precarious by the pack and the slidey, muddy trail. My hair is plastered to my forehead with sweat and rain.
All this time it is as though I’ve been in a tight urban hug without properly realizing it, and now it’s like someone’s let me go. Everything here feels too big, too open. Like a series of safety bonds are breaking—ping, ping, ping—releasing me into this quietness. I’m falling. Filling my lungs with the air of another planet. It’s severely unnatural.
After too long, and nonstop complaints from Holly, we reach the base of Mount Paradiso and decide to keep going, hiking up to the first grassy saddle. We argue about where to put the tent. We’re not supposed to pitch under trees, because they fall over sometimes, especially after wet weather, and we’ve had a record wet winter. But we all feel a little insecure about choosing a spot in the open. So we compromise and put the back of the tents close to a rocky outcrop that gives us at least the illusion of protection.
I cannot imagine being okay out here by myself. It feels weird enough, and ominously enough like the beginning of a horror movie, with two other humans; it is unthinkable that I could be here alone. I refuse to be here alone. I assert my rights as a pack animal.
My simple plan to ensure that I don’t have to do the solo hike is as follows: log name in the solo hike schedule for the final week (done), at which time I will pull a sickie. And that will be the end of it. The alternative is possible fear-induced insanity or heart failure. If any of my friends want to torture me, they all know they only have to tell me the plot of any horror movie they choose. I have always refused to actually watch one. My imagination, along with accidentally glimpsed trailers here and there, has given me enough terrifying horror fodder for life.
We find a ring of rocks that campers past have used as a fireplace, so that saves a bit of work. Finding dry wood is a challenge, after the rain all day, but we scrabble together enough. We combine our three packs of pasta for dinner—pesto. We tip the dried stuff into a pan, add water, and simmer.
We try it, looking at one another with disbelief as it hits the taste buds. “It’s pesto, Jim, but not as we know it,” I say.
“Fascinating,” says Lou, unsmilingly humoring my Star Trek reference, while wincing at the foul food. (And what made me say that? Is there such a thing as a dad-joke vacuum that needs to be filled, even in the wild?)
Lou stares into the fire, eating on autopilot. She has dark hair cut in a bob, with long bangs. She trims it herself. Her glasses frames are heavy and black, hardcore nerd. Her nose has a little dip in the middle, too cute really for her anti-pretty style. She is the sort of girl who would wear heavy boots if she ever put on a pretty frock, just to show she was calling the shots.
“I’ve never tasted shittier food,” says Holly. “And it’s probably solid carbs.”
“That’s the idea.” Lou prods and reshapes the fire with the big stick, our poker. It crac
kles up and throws a comforting heat. “So we have the energy to hike.”
I share a discovery. “If you don’t breathe through your nose, you can’t taste it as much.”
Lou and I finish our pasta despite its bizarre flavor and texture (salty, chemically, spongy, and slimy), and Holly eventually eats about half of her portion.
The sparks shoot upward, quick red threads, little help messages to the universe: Get me out of here. Let me back, civilization. Give me some real food.
“What about some nice fireside stories,” Holly suggests, her evil smile shining red.
“No! Lou, I’m a scary-story wimp. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not interested, either. I think I’ll call it a night.”
“Wait up,” says Holly. “Isn’t someone going to make cocoa?”
Because it is so cold, we boil some dried fruit as a hot “dessert,” as well as making cocoa and toasting some marshmallows.
“So, Lou, what’s your story?” asks Holly.
“I really don’t have one.”
“You’ve come here from a public school?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how come? Is this like finishing school for you, or something? Last two-and-a-bit years at private school better than none?”
“Holly! Lou, ignore her—she doesn’t realize how rude that is,” I say.
“It’s not rude—what’s rude is someone who sits like a lump and never contributes anything to the conversation,” says Holly. “Come on—make an effort. Are you going out with anyone? Do you play a sport? Where do you live in Melbourne? Why have you chosen our school?”
Lou gives her a long look. Is she thinking of taking her on? Please don’t, Lou; she bites. And I don’t want to be the one in the middle.
“I’m off to bed. Night,” says Lou.
She stops.
“I’m not going out with anyone. I live in Fitzroy. I’ve left a school I like just fine to come here because this was my mum’s school, and my grandfather also came here. Not that it’s any of your business.”
