2001-05-20 :: 7:55 p.m.

waterfalls

Soundtrack: Blur, The Best Of (Limited Edition) [Disc 2]; Talib Kweli & Hi Tek (Reflection Eternal), Train of Thought

As promised, my waterfall story follows. It is about 99% as I wrote it after returning from the falls, with only a few edits for clarification where the structure was awkward (very little by way of style changes). I was reminded of the need to post this not just because I mentioned it earlier, but because I have just come back from another outdoors trip at The Grampians, a huge set of sandstone plateaus (about 400 million years old, I'm told). (One funny thing is that the bus trip itself was still annoying -- the Budget mini-buses really suck in a lot of ways -- but after my time on the East Coast trip, I'm just adjusted to it. An adapted traveler, I guess.) We stayed in Halls Gap and did a few walks over the weekend, saw the Pinnacle, Silverbeam Falls (that's not quite right, it's Silversomething, and was a spiritual place for the Aboriginal people), MacKenzie Falls, Fish Falls (great climbing with Jude), and Elephants Hide. Lots of trees, Grampians-exclusive plants, wild kangaroos and deer, salami and havarti sandwiches, boxed pineapple juice, a head empty of scholastic and social worries. (I had been thinking of cancelling the trip because I have my final assignments coming up, but I sure am glad I didn't. This was by far the best group I've been out with.)

I wrote postcards to my family (one for each member, plus a Haiku Postcard). I joked with Lauren about always dying in Choose Your Own Adventure books, even when I worked backwards. I talked to Jude about The Selfish Gene (badly explaining the concept but hopefully intriguing him into reading it) and DJ Shadow (my jealousy soared to hear he saw Shadow open for Radiohead shortly before OK Computer's release -- jesus!) and Paul vs. John. I ate Oreos exported from China and Pringles with French on the packaging. I drank Kilkenny and discussed the importance of proper jukebox selections with Jude as he and Matt shot pool. I smelled the byebye weed on Jamie and Dan. I played Mafia around the fire pit and got killed on my first turn of my first game (when I happened to be Mafia too, to boot). I went to sleep in my cabin saying "This was a good day." And I really meant it.

I can still feel the slight ache from the constant pumping of climbing up rock steps. My calves are atwitter. When I was ascending and felt the slightest error in balance, it reminded me of the insane amount of unconscious computation going into these little steps. Eyes and spine and legs and hips, the nerves on fire and me not even having to think about it to have it all happen. I could really feel the top of my tongue on my upper palate. I was paying attention to all of it. Kangaroos have their knees going the other way and get milk out of pouches; I watched them do it, and the mothers watched me back. When chased by dogs they have learned to hop into dams and use their tails to stay afloat while using their paws to drown the assailing canine. Look at what evolution gives us.

I really used to think camping was all about being able to prove how hardcore you are, how much you can take of being in the outdoors, how badass your gear is. But now my opinion is changed. I see what Sarah H was talking about and why she loves it so much. I feel something different outside on rocks that have been around for incomprehensible amounts of time, staring down hundreds of meters and feeling my stomach turn upside down (and I thought my fear of heights was leaving, ha!). Those waterfalls will be smashing away, eroding long after I'm dead. These thoughts swam around when I ate my lunch in front of the really lovely MacKenzie Falls, and I remembered my time at Cedar Creek Falls up at Airlie Beach.

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Sun, 15 Apr 2001 18:47:32 +1000

Soundtrack: hostel radio humming in the background (Travis, "Why Does It Always Rain on Me?"; Jesus Jones, "Right Here Right Now"; Offspring, "Come Out and Play (Keep 'Em Seperated)"; etc.); phone ringing; other hostelers typing

There is the mind of instinct, the mind of the 4F's, and then there is the mind that thinks and overthinks and spirals into oblivion. I see a split between the two now more than ever. Maybe it's to do with reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which constantly hammers on this, but this trip to the Whitsundays is doing something to me.

On the bus I can feel my body in cranky pain, cramping, and fighting against this sensation to achieve sleep, to detach the tired brain from the aching support system. Sometimes it succeeds, others not. Last night I tried to sleep out in the bush, and flies kept buzzing on my cheeks, yanking me exasperated from the rushing grip of sleep, a tunnel I could literally feel for the first time in I don't know how long: I could see myself falling asleep, I knew it was happening, and then this drone would whirl around and then -- bam -- I was being vomited back up from the grip of sleep.

Today we finally arrived, and the first item on the agenda was Cedar Creek Falls. The waterfall was gorgeous, as waterfalls tend to be, and people bobbed in the small pond beneath it. The rocks were sharp and slippery, but we all made it into the cool water safely, and soon we were all warm and at home. Stewart, the stoic Scottish group leader, took two pictures of my exposed head after I made my way into the pool. I've been feeling more and more seperate from the group, like I'm playing Richard in The Beach, and true to form I swam off to the other side from the rocks where the balls were being tossed (a little boy joined in, punting it and armpit-farting in true male fashion). There was a branch there wedged into the rocks, and I hung from it first with my arms, and then monkeyed my feet up onto it, hooking my knees round the tip. I floated in the water the way I had tried a bit earlier (that early attempt resulted in me being greeted by the volleyball inches from my submerged face). The water sank into my ears and drowned all but faint hints of the others. I occasionally opened my eyes and stared at the sky overhead. Even here, I thought, even here I cannot be totally alone. I would have to be like Toru Okada and climb to the bottom of a well to be alone.

I climbed up the waterfall side a bit, but wary of jumping, didn't go all the way. Before I left I swam against the current up to the edge of the waterfall. Two bikini-clad girls were ahead of me, climbing up. I moved left as their barely-covered bottoms moved farther and farther away from me. The one closest to me was silver, and the one above her was black. The pounding water spray coughed into my face, and I had to look away from the direction I was moving (my face to the right, my body going left). I searched blindly for handholds and footholds, and moved farther into the crash. I was almost blind with the water everywhere, hanging off all the hairs in my face, my lashes, my brows. It was seeping into my mouth: a sweet, fresh taste. The rocks were wet and covered in algae, and suddenly I slipped, panicked, and then regained a footing. I leaned over and the water whaled away at my back. This was really the thick of it. My mind was totally blank save for considering where my next breath would be found. It was free of all the worries that had creeped in when I was hanging from the branch, infections from the other people's squeals slinking through the water to my sunken ears. I wasn't there for long. There are moments that constantly occur in TWUBC that are described as unbearable, or intolerable. This seems like it was one of them. I suddenly had to leave, I couldn't be under the fall anymore. My mind couldn't take this nothingness. I dove out, underwater, pushing with breaststrokes. When I surfaced I was out of the current, bobbing, nearly alone. Most people had gone ashore. The bikini girls sat behind the waterfall, considering jumping into the rocky depths, an act which would disregard the warning signs (pictographic equation: figure of Diving Man = figure of Handicapped Man).

When I arrived on shore I toweled off, then saw Mike and Dan on top of the fall. "How did they get up there?" I asked Stewart.

"There's a path around the side there," he answered. He gestured in the proper direction.

"How long does it take?"

"Ten minutes, you have time." We had thirty minutes until we had to leave.

I set off alone in my bathers, singlet, and thongs. I carried my cargo shorts (containing everything but the camera I left with Stewart so that he could photograph me atop the falls) by my belt, looped through the beltholes so I had a makeshift bag. My towel was around my waist for the first few minutes of the climb, and hindered me. I slung it over my shoulder, realizing I was foolish to have both the shorts (which slowed movement and often took the use of a much-needed hand) and the towel (just awkward). The path wasn't very visible, and I just followed my instincts through whatever bush looked to have been slightly trampled. In fact, the path at times seemed to be virtually non-existant. I was getting higher and higher by the moment, looked across the chasm and wondering just where I was. I could not see down due to the underbrush. Trees were everywhere, trees that were hundreds of years older than me. I could only guess, but I knew it was pretty damn high. Nor could I see the waterfall -- just the small area ahead of me (which was constantly changing).

My thoughts were entirely focused on the climbing. Nothing else was in my head besides the occasional marvel at my normally non-outdoorsy self suddenly attacking this with such gusto. The water adventures, climbing the wet rocks and hanging from the branch, and now this hike -- I couldn't believe what evolution had wrought. What a truly marvelous machine I had to command; unathletic as it was, my peasant heritage was coming through for me. My thongs had survived the brief hike with Katie in Cabarita on the basalt cliffs, and they were serving me well here, incredibly enough. Adrenaline was casting aside all painful sensations. I had to be careful not to get too comfortable and at ease with my surroundings, frankly. Breaking an ankle or a neck wasn't out of the question at this height with these surroundings. The path began to get rocky, and I hoisted myself up using nearby trees and plants that looked like long, long spouts of green hay. The hay would come off in my hand, often at mildly dangerous times. I kept climbing, the trail alternating between brush and rocks.

I could hear Dan and Mike sometimes, but I couldn't locate them by sound, and I could not see them. I was a bit worried, but it felt good. I was all alone, I was doing this by myself. At the same time, I might get totally lost or be late getting back to the group, earning me dirty looks. The thoughts pricked at me like the tiny insects that were attacking my unrepelled flesh, but I swept both away and kept on. Everywhere I went, I moved for whatever looked pressed down and higher up. At one point, some dead hay leaves on the ground made a sort of trap-like false footing, but I tested it and didn't fall for it. It had to have been more than ten minutes now, I told myself. Where was I? Bush was everywhere. Hay trees obscured my view, and paper barks were my only other handholds, mushy and damp. I was on top, but the waterfall was obviously far to my right. I could hear it now. I looked over a rock at the edge -- it was a long way down, but my fear of heights remained at bay. You could only see some dirt and bush anyway, no view of the actual ground level was possible.

I called out "Hello?" over and over, but my voice was already hoarse, and nobody was answering. Where did Mike and Dan go?

After a few minutes and plenty of swatted flies, I could see them passing below me on a path I had not traversed. How did they get there? My mind was whirring, but only thinking about immediate matters. How will I survive this? How will I get down? Do I leave now, pictureless, after such a hard climb? How? I'd already pressed far into the bush up here, which way was "back?" Could I even get to the main path? I thought about the endless torrent of bugs, and how if it was me versus them, they'd win hands down. Little uncomplicated black smears when I smushed them, but they could beat me. I called to Mike and Dan, and they saw me, but they couldn't really show me how they got to where they were. It was useless.

I pressed towards the sound of the waterfall. I might very well be on an entirely different cliff at this point. There could be a chasm between them, ruining my plans. I really didn't know. The hay was fingering me lightly as I pushed through it. Lots of paths were trampled, or so it seemed. I had no idea how I'd get back. There seemed to be a rock shelf below the area I was at, so I climbed down to it and saw a group of about five people climbing up. This was good for two reasons: 1) they might clue me in, and 2) I wasn't holding anyone up. They were baffled at first when I called to them, but soon they saw my waving hand. Like Mike and Dan though, they were of little help, concerned with their own climb. They were below me, but headed in the same direction I was. Maybe I could meet them at the lookout.

I climbed down a bit and moved farther towards the falls. Suddenly I could see the pebbley "beach" below me -- there was everyone else. I motioned to Maura to get Stewart, calling out his name. She didn't understand. I made an 'S' with my arms, and she waved at me, confused. Finally Stewart saw me, far detached from the group, and I waved to him. He snapped a picture and waved back. Still, I was unsatisfied -- there was no waterfall beneath me. And I still did not know how I was going to get down.

Now I could see the others at the lookout over the waterfall. They'd made it. I called to them, but the fall was drowning me out. Well, I had to be close now. I saw the rocky top of the fall a few meters below me. A few monkey-grabs, and I was down on its level. Between me and the fall top, however, lay a small chasm in the rocks. It was nothing horrible, but it was wet (due to its own mini-fall), and a few slips could end up with very real injuries. I couldn't tell how deep the puddles were. My towel was wrapped around my throat now in scarf-fashion, and I hoisted my shorts-bag high on my shoulder, then slid down to the chasm. It was so wet I almost lost control, but I made it over without too much hassle. Success! I clomped happily along, avoiding some rather stagnant looking pools, and tried to figure out how to get to the lookout now without making any dangerous steps. I slid one foot gingerly into a pool of indeterminate depths and began to slip. I tried to regain my footing, but sloshed over, ending up waist-deep in the water. Awkwardly, I held the shorts high, their legholes grazing the surface of the water. This balancing act earned me a few stumbles, further soaking my bottom half. A few wet steps later, I was out and atop another large rock. The lookout was visible from here, the other five were smiling for cameras way down below.

They cleared out and I stepped out to the outcropping, not really looking straight down (a good idea, given the fear and all), but looking out to the beach people. Stewart didn't need to be called this time -- he just waved and I held my shorts aloft. The flash went off, and I turned to watch the others leaving. No way I was going back my way this time. (In retrospect it seems odd, because we went down the right side of the fall and most of us had come up the left. I think that's because Bruce had taken that route, and it was definitely the easiest path.)

Bruce was across a rushing current of water. It was no more than a meter across, but moving quickly. Who knew if you could get sucked over? I had seen Bruce helping others as they crossed. I tossed my shorts, towel (now soaked), and thongs over to him. My bare feet gripped the rock hard. I stepped down to the water, and began to take a step in. Just as Bruce began to utter some kind of warning, I fell in, bracing myself with my hands and doused up to my armpits. I was on my hands and knees, the water was gushing by angrily. Bruce shot a hand out, but luckily, I wasn't really moving anywhere, just dazed. It felt tremendous though, quite good. I was really feeling it. Everyone began calling out. "I'm okay," I said, and Bruce helped me out.

The climb down was pretty uneventful. I stayed barefoot, fearful of my soaking wet thongs and the steep, muddy path. I grabbed onto trees and swung down the path, slipping occasionally, and wincing when I hit a rocky patch, but even this wasn't so bad. I could feel everything, head to prehensile toes, literally. So long as I was moving, I was alive, and nothing else really mattered. A cut on my foot might set me back, sure, but I was being careful enough, and I could feel my natural callouses holding up. Bruce looked back whenever I fell too far behind (I was being fairly careful now that my palms had been scraped raw from the rocks beneath the water I'd so carelessly fallen into), but I never needed his help. I thought about how incredible my little exploration had been. I'd made it all this way without any real outdoorsman experience. It was like tapping into a raw animal part of the brain I rarely felt. When the bottom of the falls appeared again in the form of a small water-covered patch of rocks (the far end of the pool), I slipped on my thongs and dunked up to my knees. The cold was an incredible soothing sensation. I dipped my hands in, carefully avoiding to get my shorts any wetter, and splashed up my arms.

Stewart congratulated me when I got out. "You did well," he said.

"I don't know how I got there... I just followed what looked like the path, I thought it might be some little secret you knew about, not too many people had gone or something... and there I was."

"You took the hardest path. I've seen many people out here, and I've never seen anyone on that rock you were on before the waterfall."

Stewart is a pretty hardened outdoorsman. His wiry silver mustache and penetrating, pencil-lead pupils tell you this as much as his red, toughened skin. I rode back reading TWUBC, not talking to anyone save for when I got whacked with another badly hit volleyball, and even then, I kept my words to a minimum. My palms ached and my muscles bemoaned their hard work, but I felt fantastic. There was something pure and lovely about my time at the waterfall. I felt a bubbling urge to document it, and have managed to do so shortly before the lot of us are meant to leave for dinner (celebrating Tom's birthday [22], and Easter [who cares]). Tomorrow my half of the group leaves for the boats. I look forward to seeing what that will bring. Enough for now.