by Chris Bray
Armed with a calculator and our target daily amount of calories for fat, protein and carbohydrates, we walked into the supermarket. I scrutinised the label on the back of a chocolate bar. ‘Ten per cent fat? That’s ridiculous!’ We got solemn nods of understanding from passing weight-conscious shoppers, which changed to horror as I continued, ‘We need like … 50 per cent fat, at least! Let’s try pure butter.’ With ‘diet’ this, and new ‘ulta-slim’ that, it was near impossible to find the original lard-injected versions of anything. Eventually we composed our menu, which included 123 grams of chocolate (that’s half a family-sized block), 50 grams of butter, 200 grams of nuts, and 50 grams of peanut butter, each, per day.
‘How many days do you reckon it’ll take to walk across?’ It was the question on both our lips. If we travelled for just five hours a day (which we could do before lunch if we really wanted), at a snail’s walking pace of just over 3 kilometres an hour, we rationalised it should take no more than 60 days to cross the island. This was deliberately very conservative—we knew we could put in much longer days than that, especially in the 24-hour sunlight that we could expect in the Arctic at that time of year, and paddling down river and even along the coast would be much faster than walking, and 3 kilometres per hour was pretty slow for walking. However, we were intending to film the journey to create a documentary, and so we’d need a bit of extra time along the way for this. ‘Sixty days … let’s give us another five. Sixty-five days,’ I said. It would be difficult squeezing a 65-day holiday into the 45-day break I was allowed between my scholarship work placements, but as with so many other looming hurdles, I adopted the ‘we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it’ approach. I jotted the number down in our notebook, tapping the pen on the page for emphasis. Sixty-five days. Agreed.
‘So … 65 days times two people times 123 grams of chocolate is …’ I punched the numbers idly into my calculator. ‘Oh my God! Sixteen kilograms of chocolate!’ We hastily tallied up the total mass of our ultra-weight-efficient diet and shifted our shoulders uncomfortably, already feeling the obscene load we’d be hauling. Over 60 kilograms in food alone, each.
Thankfully, drinking water wouldn’t be an issue, as we would never be more than a stone’s throw away from a lake. We’d been told that the lakes, refreshed by snow-melt each season, should be safe to drink from. The only other major consumable was fuel. Our two MSR liquid-fuelled stoves drank ‘white spirits’ (the same thing as ‘white gas’), but how much? Again, it wasn’t the sort of thing we wanted to run out of—unable to boil our rice, pasta or dehydrated meals we’d soon be in real trouble.
‘Well, we’re having two mugs of hot drinks a day,’ Clark started.
‘And we’ll have to boil the oats in the morning, and … I’d say about a litre of boiling water for dinner,’ I continued. Next we carefully measured out 1 litre of cold water—complete with a few ice cubes—into our saucepan, and fired up one of our stoves outside. By measuring the change in weight of the fuel bottle after boiling, we worked out how many grams of fuel was spent to boil 1 litre of water. After a few more back-of-the-envelope calculations, we pulled out the number we were looking for: we’d need 8 litres of white spirits to fuel our journey. Conscious of the fact that my backyard didn’t mimic Arctic conditions too precisely—it was somewhat warmer and less windy for a start—we drastically decided to double our figure, allowing 16 litres of fuel. Better safe than sorry. Besides, a week or two into our trek we could make a much more accurate reassessment and burn any excess fuel to save weight. Ordering extra, on the other hand, would be a little more difficult.
It was now mid January 2005, and I had begun working at Siemens Logistics & Assembly—the first of my two six-month industry placements. Again, I found the dreaded nine-to-five office work was made tolerable only by the knowledge that I was working towards such an exciting adventure at the end of it. While at work, every second I had spare—and, admittedly, more than a few seconds that I didn’t really have spare—I continued to plan, organise, research and make notes.
Our Expedition Document was really starting to flesh out by this stage, and it was time for us to put it to the test. It was, you see, a dual-purpose document. While it would be the key to securing the sponsorship we so desperately needed, there was a far bigger hurdle to overcome first. For days I waited anxiously for just the right moment, and then it happened. I sat Mum down, and brought out the semi-complete document. ‘I’m going to take a holiday between my two work placements …’ I began.
I thought she took it very well, even the page about the polar bears. When I had finished, Mum slowly looked up, pained concern bleeding through her brave exterior, and whispered, ‘Have you told Dad?’
Steady on, I thought, let’s learn to crawl before I try and run! I shook my head. ‘Ohhhh,’ she gulped, visibly squirming under the anguish of not being able to confide in him. ‘Just … please tell him soon. Please don’t let him find out by reading it in the paper, or by overhearing a speech like your Greenland idea … okay?’
I agreed.
I bit the bullet and broached the subject with Dad just a few days later. Remarkably, buried beneath all his immediate concern, words of caution and analysis of foreseeable problems, I detected more than a trace of enthusiasm—excitement even. I was thrilled. I expected to have to battle this one—I was even prepared to put my foot down and make a stand—but listening to his reaction (‘The scholarship program won’t be happy … and hmm, what about …’), even his negatives sounded more like token hurdles put in place to maintain the responsible parent image, while inside he clearly wanted to say, ‘What an awesome project!’
Clark’s parents, on the other hand, were still recovering from his New Zealand trip. He still owed them money for it, and having realised how narrowly he’d escaped death by deciding not to climb Mount Aspiring, they were not thrilled with the concept of adventuring at all. Clark was getting increasingly nervous as time went on and his parents remained in the dark about Victoria Island. He admitted to me that the main reason his parents had supported his going to New Zealand was because he promised them it would be his last venture before starting university, knuckling down, and getting his degree. ‘I just don’t know what they’ll say …’ He shook his head. His best chance, he decided, would be to wait until university started at the end of February—that way he could sweeten the bitter pill by delivering it at the same time as the good news that his university career was under way. As horrifying as keeping our plans hidden from them for another full month sounded, it would be possible because, rather conveniently, Clark’s parents live in America for work.
Like a freight train out of control, we couldn’t afford the time to wait for Clark to inform his parents—we just had to keep on planning, and hope for the best. We ordered two Atlas hauling harnesses from Eric Philips’s expedition outfitting company, Icetrek. Eric—who along with companion Jon Muir was the first Aussie to ski to both the North and South Pole—was greatly impressed by our plans: ‘Distinctly different. Great stuff!’ We splashed this endorsement over our promotional poster, and stamped it proudly in our Expedition Document. Others soon followed. ‘A chilling trek, guaranteed to set imaginations ablaze!’—Ben Kozel, first Australian to raft the full length of the Amazon …
‘So when do we get to meet Clark?’ Mum questioned while Dad listened in.
‘I’m meeting with him this weekend,’ I admitted, realising as I said it that our meetings no longer needed to be confidential and off site.
‘We’ll have a barbecue!’ Mum announced, and that was that. Clark turned up, and I introduced him, every bit as nervous as if this was a new girlfriend. He sweet-talked his way through a lengthy lunch, and answered all their questions precisely the right way. We were both waiting for the inevitable, ‘So, what do your parents think of all this?’ But it never came. That was very lucky.
‘He’s lovely,’ Mum gushed later that night. ‘He seems very sensible—I get good vibes from him.’
The arrival of our hauling harnesses was the first tangible evidence, besides the maps we’d bought, that this really was happening. Huge padded waist- and shoulder-straps, and an equally huge price tag—in every way our harnesses resembled a very expensive backpack, with the minor exception that there was nowhere you could actually put anything, just two stainless steel D-rings stitched to the sides with reinforced webbing to clip into the sled. They looked very serious.
‘Yes, that’s right. Just any big old truck tyre will be fine—we just want to drag them behind us as we walk along the beach …’
The guy at the tyre service centre paused, and looked up from the greasy tyre he was working on. ‘Wh—’ he began, absent-mindedly picking up his socket spanner only to put it down again, obviously having difficulty grappling with the mental image of such an inane idea. ‘Sure, but … why?’ We were getting this question more and more frequently.
The next morning, a couple out for an early morning stroll along Palm Beach found themselves subconsciously following a carefully smoothed trail, about 1 metre wide, snaking its way along the sand. Abruptly their path terminated at a gasping, sweaty form sitting on a truck tyre. Suddenly realising what they had been doing, the couple turned around and gazed incredulously back along the winding path they had followed, and then turned their eyes, full of confusion, on me. ‘I’m employed by the council to smooth the beach,’ I explained between gulps of air. ‘New OH&S rules … lumpy sand has been identified as a trip-hazard.’ They nodded in complete lack of understanding, and wandered away in bewilderment before I had the breath to set the record straight.
Dragging the tyre was as much of a promotional stunt as it was training. So many people stopped us along the way that we soon carried in our pockets a wad of flyers to hand out seeking sponsorship. Our respective local papers even ran a few stories: ‘Beach warm-up for Arctic trek’ ran one headline. It was much harder than it looked—the tyre would gradually fill up with sand, feeling more and more like we were hauling a ship’s anchor. It was amusing watching how young kids reacted—some would run up and throw more sand in the middle (little bastards, they’ll grow up to be personal trainers, those ones!), and some would climb on board while their parents called them off in complete embarrassment. Others would adorably trot along beside the tyre, scooping out handfuls to lighten our load. The more ambitious youngsters sometimes asked for a turn, and while they didn’t move it very far, it was a welcome break.
At long last Clark received his letter of acceptance into Media Studies at university—the good news he needed before attempting to tell his parents about the expedition.
Halfway across the globe, his mum answered the phone, and Clark swung his carefully scripted plan into action. He delivered the sweeter news about uni, hesitated, and then chased it up with the bitter pill. There was a little noise on the other end of the phone, and then his mum simply hung up on him.
Like a stunned mullet, Clark sat by the phone, dumbfounded, as he came to grips with what had just happened. This wasn’t good. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by Clark’s phone going off.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Clark,’ the melting tone of her voice was reassuring. ‘Look, I know you’ll be safe, and I think it sounds amazing. I just wish it wasn’t my boy who was going, that’s all. But if you’re decided, then … Dad and I will support your decision.’
An uncontrollable grin spread over Clark’s face as he replaced the receiver and texted me the news. Weightless with relief, I flicked back through our To-Do book, and placed a satisfying tick against ‘Tell Clark’s parents about the expedition’, on page one. Below it was listed another equally minor task: ‘Organise sponsorship’.
TASMANIAN WILDERNESS EXPEDITION
Luckily I’d already had some experience organising sponsorship. During my university scholarship industry placement at the end of 2003, I sat at my workstation PC and—trying to keep alive the memories of hiking the Overland Track with Jasper—just happened to stumble upon the website of well-respected hiker John Chapman. Flicking through descriptions of some of his epic hikes, one in particular seized my imagination. This was to be the second turning point in my life, a somewhat exaggerated version of the first. I again convinced Jasper to set off with me, this time on a 30-day trek through Tasmania’s extremely isolated south-western wilderness. Only a handful of people had ever done what I wanted to do—hike between Port Davey in the south up to Strahan about 200 kilometres north, following the inhospitable western coastline. There would be no tracks—we’d need to use a machete, and we’d also need two airdrops of supplies along the way. I only had four weeks’ break between finishing this work placement and starting my third year at university, and I was determined to make the most of it.
The only problem with this Tasmanian adventure was that it was going to be incredibly expensive. On Sunday evenings I worked as a kitchen-hand or ‘dish-pig’ in a local gourmet pizza café, and I stuck up a tiny poster on the café window stating that ‘Dish-Pigs Belong in the Wilderness’, below which I laid out the plans for our adventure, asking for financial support. The odd two-dollar tip occasionally found its way to me, but one day my boss Phil—an enthusiastic (if not partially mad) South African—introduced me to another enthusiastic (and also partially mad) South African, Andreas. Andreas presented me with a $20 donation to ensure that he had my full attention, then sat me down and told me he’d been on several adventures himself, and knew a thing or two about sponsorship. ‘Leave it with me, I’ll talk to some people, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Meanwhile I’d informed my local northern Sydney newspaper, the Manly Daily, about our proposed adventure. Very generously, journalist Liz McDougall ran a half-page story, ending with ‘If anyone wants to assist the adventurers, phone Chris on …’ But by the end of the day I’d had only two responses to the article, with a total of $20 in cheques apparently in the mail. I needed to do better than that. Liz encouraged me to apply for formal sponsorship with the Australian Geographic Society. I dismissed the idea as absurd—they sponsored real expeditions headed to places like Antarctica, not students going on an extended bushwalk. Partly to humour her, and partly to prove my point, I printed out a copy of the application form and read over the questions. ‘Why is this project important to Australia?’ I laughed dryly, and shoved it at the bottom of my ever growing pile of paperwork.
Not long after, I heard back from the South African, Andreas. He took Jasper and me to meet the managers of Aktiv8, the Australian importer of a range of high-profile outdoor equipment, including the brands Karrimor, Exped and Ortlieb. I brought with me a lengthy document I’d prepared detailing every aspect of our Tassie expedition—covering everything from the safety precautions we’d be taking, to how we planned to cross rivers, right down to our proposed dinner menu. Together we all chatted about it for some time.
The more the managers understood what we were intending to do, the more visibly worried they became. ‘You do realise, for instance,’ one began, ‘that these rivers you’ll have to cross won’t be meandering streams. They will be fast-flowing, their banks will be steep and slippery—there will be no wading in, you’ll have to hang off tree roots and drop into them and swim for your life. You’ll have about 60 seconds to flounder to the far bank—hopefully without being swept onto submerged rocks—before hypothermia will start to set in …’ They looked at us with genuine concern in their eyes.
‘Umm, yes … we are aware of this,’ we lied, trying to hide our alarm. We were asked to leave them for two hours while they thought it over. Jasper and I maintained our confident expressions until we were safely outside, and then gave each other a look that said, more plainly than words, ‘Oh my God! What exactly are we getting ourselves into?’
Two hours later we walked back in. They told us up front that they had actually been trying to talk us out of the expeditio
n from the start of our meeting, and they had been surprised at our (blind) confidence—so much so, that they had decided to sponsor us. ‘If you’re seriously going, then we’re going to help you survive as best we can.’ We smiled weakly.
They then proceeded to kit us out on the spot with everything they could think of from their warehouse. About an hour later we walked out grinning like idiots, both shouldering Karrimor’s top-of-the-line 60-litre (expandable to 100-litre) hiking pack, stuffed absolutely full with everything from bedrolls and waterproof camera bags, to thermals and Karrimor clothing. We just couldn’t stop smiling. The packs were next season’s model—they were not even released in stores yet! In the space of a few hours we’d gone from two boys wanting to go on a hiking holiday to feeling like two explorers setting out on an epic expedition. It did wonders for our confidence and credibility, and I went home and filled in the sponsorship application for Australian Geographic and posted it off, along with applications to a number of other companies.
To our surprise and delight, our number of sponsors grew. Even Australian Geographic came on board, providing us with funds to buy a decent camera! Clearly either not enough people out there were asking for sponsorship that year, or we were getting ourselves into something much bigger than we realised.
