I Want To Ride My Bicycle

It was one of those rare mornings where the sound of the alarm hits you like a defibrillator.
A morning where the first rays of light sneaking through the curtains are as welcome a lover’s waking and wandering hands.
You’re gripped by an enthusiasm you haven’t felt in weeks.
At least, not since Tasmania’s notorious winter began to bed down with a severity you expected to be able to weather.

You were misguided. Goddamn, you were so misguided.
You’ve been sleeping in until 10 far too often, and only riding your bike when the mercury climbs above 10 degrees celsius – cursing yourself throughout for how soft you’ve become.
But this morning was different – this morning your body yearned for the innumerable pedal strokes; for the freezing Hobartian air to constrict your airways and for the climb up the Kunanyi road which would seize your thighs for days to come.
You bounded out of bed, dreaming of a morning in the saddle which would deliver a 1200 metre adjustment in altitude and a glimpse into the mind of the masochist.

The feeling is familiar to any keen cyclist – I just wanted to ride my bike somewhere I had not yet ridden it.
Not groundbreaking in terms of things worth writing about, or places ridden.
And, to be honest, the route is probably one of southern Australia’s most traversed cycling routes.
Starting before the sun in Sandy Bay, I planned to ride up Huon Road to where it meets Pinnacle Road and then follow that up to the Springs parking lot.
From there, I would decide whether to carry on toward the Kunanyi summit, or try and find a trail in Hobart’s downhill oeuvre I hadn’t yet exhausted.
At the intersection of Huon and Pinnacle, at around 8am, the sign indicating road closures told me there was no vehicle access beyond the Springs due to ice and your average punter’s inability to operate a vehicle – especially when the road is icy.
This was made clear to everyone involved when a motorcyclist attempted a u-turn at the closure, at less than five km per hour, and ditched his bike under the front bumper of a car parked adjacent.
Fortunately only his ego was damaged, and it served as a cogent demonstration to all those looking on as to why they should be allowed to drive no further.
I was standing there, with a bucket of excellent Lost Freight flat white, laughing at both the motorcyclist who couldn’t turn on ice, and my own plans to continue onwards and upwards.
When surrounded by idiots, it turns out it surprisingly comforting to go with the flow and act like an idiot.

So I checked with the traffic controllers, who confirmed the road wasn’t closed to bicycles, and made like Icarus and continued upward and east – directly into the sun.
Gods, I was rewarded! A road which is normally congested with a cavalcade of incompetent drivers and professional tourists was deserted, save for a few hikers and one National Parks vehicle.
I continued the pedal up in the sunshine and the silence, which was broken only by the crunch of ice and snow under my (surprisingly grippy) tyres.
I’m riding a 2017 Specialized Enduro (whatever they call the bottom of the range alloy model), with a 2.6 inch Specialized Butcher on the front and a 2.5 inch Maxxis on the back; neither of which have seen snow since a very light dusting on Mt Mackenzie in Revelstoke, Canada, around October last year.
Although I wouldn’t even test the (frozen) waters of trying to send them downhill on the Mt Wellington road, uphill they were remarkably capable of holding me in line as I granny gear’d it toward the summit.
Despite the recent inspiration of the Tour de France, I’ll never claim to be fast up a hill.
Especially not on a bike.
I’ll be bitching and grunting and muttering “I think I can, I know I can” just like Mum taught me when I was a fat eight-year-old trying to run three kilometres around the neighbourhood because I’d been promised a Nintendo 64 if I could do so without stopping.
But I’ll get there, and usually, I’d be smiling because I knew I could start going downhill again soon. Not today though; today I came to what I expected to be the start of the descent and was greeted with a four kilometre hike-a-bike mission through ankle to knee-deep snow.
Not that I wasn’t smiling – it was over a year since I had played in the snow at that point and even a poxy Tasmanian iteration of coverage was enough to get me grinning like an idiot.
But I was alone, and I was leading the bootpack, and there was no one racing to get first tracks on this wintry ski run.
There was no rush.

Back-to-back winters in recent years have instilled in me a desire to always be the first to destroy a beautifully pristine snowpack – shralp and destroy, regardless of what I rode in on. So although I had the opportunity to do this on a bluebird day on one of the southernmost peaks in Australia, there was no rush.

I approached my own personal summit with all the pace and grace of a curious wombat – which, truthfully, I was looking out for.
But to no avail, as hose furry bastards had only appeared to me as meaty boulders crushed on the roads of Australia’s south-east during my road trip from the Sunshine Coast to Tasmania earlier in the year.

But a mountain bike in the snow is not a stealthy vehicle, and any wildlife had had the sense to move on by the time I passed by – if it had been there at all.
By mountain biking standards, the fire trail which traverses the north-eastern face of Kunanyi is not exciting. Maybe a little more so when covered in snow, but it is wide and only occasionally steep.
Like many of Kunanyi’s official mountain biking trails, it is simply a four-wheel-drive track which has been repurposed to keep the hikers and bikers separate. Anyone that has been on either side of high speed collision or near-collision while biking or hiking knows there is no winner in that fight.
But for reasons purely adventurous in nature, the trail was everything I needed from a Saturday morning in July.
I set out with only a vague idea of where I was going, how I would get there and what I would find along the way.
And I think this is the point I’d normally turn a story into an allegory about my life; but I think I’ve just about exhausted my desire to turn my poor choices into morality lessons.
There may be a greater existential reasoning for the things I do, but for the moment I’m done trying to make that stone bleed.


Sentiment and Snapped Strings

Over the years, I’ve given and received my share of broken hearts.

But in 2017 I broke my dick for the first time so that made the year one to remember.

(A few other things happened too, but they’ve all been fairly well documented on my Instagram so feel free to go there if you want to keep a wholesome image of me intact.)

It took a few minutes of swearing and agony but I managed to stem the flow of blood, destroying bed sheets and a bath towel in the process, long enough to placate the girl I was with.

After all, she was at least partly to blame for the ordeal.

She was a ghostly shade of pale, in shock from having so violently learnt that the penis was something that could be broken in such a fashion.

Fortunately for me, a couple friends had been through the same experience in recent years and had been more than happy to relive the story for anyone in the bar who would listen.

I wasn’t sure of the mechanics of how they had done it, but when I did it myself a few missing pieces quickly snapped into place. Or out.

So I had snapped my banjo string; which is a hilarious euphemism for a horrible experience.

After a bit of googling, I found out that in medical circles the banjo string is known as a frenulum, and armed with that information I hobbled into the doctor’s office with an icepack on my crotch.

What I didn’t find out is that ‘frenulum’ is a common term for various pieces of tissue in the human body, such as the one that holds your tongue to the floor of your mouth.

This led to a considerable amount of confusion as I told the doctor I had broken my frenulum, he asked to see it, I took off my pants and he just stared at me for a moment.  

“Oh! That frenulum? Shit. I thought you meant the one in your mouth!” Dr Deliverance said.

“I told you I broke it during sex?” I laughed, standing there half naked.

“Yeah I thought you meant during oral sex,” he responded, leaving me to question whether he thought I was gay or if I have been performing oral sex on girls very wrong for a long time.

And so I learnt there is a quiet affirmation in going through an experience which is not at all life threatening, but which can still be uniquely tragic.

Out of the woodwork came a host of blokes who would nod and grimace in a knowing fashion when I told the story, laughing at all the right moments both in solidarity and sympathy.

Not unlike a broken rib, to heal the banjo string little can be done save to rest a few weeks and try your best to not become aroused.

Oh, how cruel the games of fate.

But, as the last three years of my life had essentially dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure, it was somewhat fitting that towards the end of my time living in Canada my ability to indulge in such earthly delights would be so violently denied.

And maybe it was fitting, as a fear of sex allowed me to focus on properly saying farewell to the excellent town of Revelstoke and its population of kind hearted thrill seekers.

Oh, I reached a level of piety Christians can only dream of. Praise be.

Theology aside, leaving Revelstoke to return to Noosa is a continuation of unintentional three year cycles I have been following since I started at the University of the Sunshine Coast in 2008.

I left there for Western Australia with a bachelor’s degree in hand in 2011 to conquer the illustrious world of regional newspapers, and I left there in 2014 to travel the Americas and find myself a home in the mountains.

Now my three years in North America has passed and my wanderlust has, curiously, led me home.

Home to family and old friends.

Home to the setting of my childhood, of where I began to form a worldview.

Home to where I learned to ride a bike and, more importantly, fall off a bike.

Home to a tourist town I have had people the world over congratulate me on being from like I had a choice.

Home to afternoon thunderstorms and humidity that sticks your skin to timber and leather furniture and your ideas of how good you’re going to look today.

Home to all that Aussie sentiment John Williamson sung about and which I don’t want to try to replicate.

Ah, sentiment.

How many shitty pensive social media posts you’ve been responsible for.  

With its lingering sides of regret served up as tantalising amuse bouches from which to ignite my memories and inhabit my soul.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, just give me a bottle of Margaret River cab sauv I need something to wash this down with.

Sentiment is to regret as a trigger is to a bullet; one inevitably leads to the other.

Unless you’re firing blanks.

Which I could be since, you know, I broke my dick.

Here’s cheers to you, 2018!


El Salvador, The Saviour

The parking attendant was in his late 30s, heavyset, with a greying goatee.
Under his high visibility vest he wore an old Atlanta Braves Jersey and his cap bore the American flag.
“How you doin’ man?”
“Bien amigo, y tu?” I responded reflexively, barely realising he had spoken to me in English.
“I’m good man, I’m doin’ good,” he said as he waved a new Hilux into the dusty lot.
His position appeared wholly unnecessary, as the lot was half empty and the restaurant it serviced full.
“Where are you from, brother?” I said, subconsciously adopting his Latin American accent.
“Atlanta, Georgia man. Lived there for 25 years.”
“But you were born around here?” I asked, curious if an American citizen would choose to work as a parking attendant at a highway comedor in El Salvador.
“Yeah man, I was born here,” he said, looking at me as if no one had asked him anything personal in years. “Parents took me to the US when I was a kid.”
He attempted to conceal a grimace with a smile as he waved to the passenger of a taxi leaving the lot.
A stray dog lay in the shade under the tree in front of the comedor, and a collared dog leashed to its owner’s table lay a few metres away staring at the stray.
The restaurant served buffet style meals from a bain marie or made pupusas to order. $4US got me a glass bottle of coke, a pile of chicken, rice and vegetables and a couple of tortillas to wrap it all in.
It was the first thing I’d eaten since my post surf double latte and Nutella crepe in El Tunco seven hours earlier.
I should have known it wouldn’t be enough.
“Good food here eh?” I said to the attendant in a lame attempt to change the direction of the conversation.
“Yeah man. You liked it? I’m glad, man.”
“Good feed man. Real good feed. You think the coke is better down here man?”
He cocked an eyebrow at me.
I needed to clarify.
“The coca cola. It’s sweeter here than in the US I think.”
“Oh, yeah man. It’s made with real cane sugar down here. They use that high fructose corn syrup in the US.”
“Man I can taste that!” I laughed. I only drink the stuff in Latin America, I fucking hate it back home. Not just the taste, it’s just a trash drink.”
He laughed, too.
“I’ll take that high fructose trash and a home in America, amigo.”
His current life was apparently not one he had chosen.
“You didn’t leave because you wanted to, hey?”
“I was deported, man. They caught me selling coke and deported me for ten years.”
“They deported a citizen? How the fuck are they allowed to deport a citizen?”
“I’ve stopped asking those questions, man. End of the day I fucked up. I know that.”
“Did they offer you jail time in the US as an alternative?”
“Nah man. They didn’t give me any choices.”
I don’t doubt his story.
A parking attendant with an American accent in El Salvador has less cause to lie than the US Justice System has ability to not follow its own laws.
Or so my pessimism would lead me to believe.
“I’ve been here six years. It’s nice man, it’s quiet. It’s a beautiful country.”
“So you can go back in four years?”
“Maybe. If they want to let me back in. With the president we’ve got there at the moment it’s not looking so good, man.”
That Trump would be elected for a second term, let alone even completing his first, is a horrifying concept for most.
For the attendant it is more personal than political.
“Vamos amigos!” came the call from the bus driver, and I turned back to shake the attendant’s hand.
I get a low-five and a fist bump instead.
“My name’s Roberto, man.”
“Mucho gusto, Roberto.”
I fold myself back into the back of the Mercedes Sprinter van, as comfortable as you could ask to be for a $35, fifteen hour bus journey from El Salvador to Nicaragua.
The next morning, after getting home from his second job as a security guard at a local mall, Roberto might call his parents and lie to them about his life in El Salvador.
From his squalid one room concrete bungalow he would Facebook video call his parents and the cellular data charges would run him a full day’s wage.
When he speaks to his parents he would apologise again for squandering the opportunity they gave him by moving him to the USA as a kid, but he was now working towards owning his own restaurant in Santa Rosa De Lima.
He would console his mother through her tears and continue to speak in rounds over the deafening silence of his father.
He would go back to work at the restaurant after three hours sleep when it opened for the day’s lunch trade.
Another bus of gringos would be groggily unloaded for a cheap feed en-route to Nicaragua, and they would regard Roberto with as much interest as the stray dog lying in the shade.
In Atlanta, his state appointed attorney would compose an email to Roberto about federal legislation changes regarding felony drug charges and the negative consequences for him.
At LAX, a young Italian traveller would be caught with a trace amount of marijuana in her luggage, have her ESTA revoked and be put on a plane back to Mexico, where she flew in from.
And in a hostel in Leon, I would watch an american traveller use his credit card to crush legally acquired Xanax pills into lines on his phone, chasing the promise of an easy high.
Nothing changes, nothing stays the same.
But fortunately, none of it means anything you don’t want it to mean.


Hot Sand and Thin Salty Skin

The first coffee of Cafe Ole’s daily grind is my alarm clock this week.
At 7am each morning, about three metres from where I sleep, on the other side of a wood panel wall, the cafe comes to life.
For around $10AUD each night, that the accommodation comes with a luxury such as a personalised alarm clock is welcome.
My hotel room, cabana uno, is a single room with a double bed, an industrial strength fan, a few classic surfing festival posters on the walls and little else.
There’s no natural lighting aside from thin gaps in the walls and a couple of small holes in the thatched straw roofing.
I sleep naked under a thin cotton sheet, and as I stumble out of bed I pull on the pair of boardshorts I’ve lived in for the last three days.
I pull the fan’s cord from the wall and as it quiets the sound of the pacific ocean throwing itself at the shore catches my ears.
I’ve rented a nine foot longboard for a couple of days, and it stands against the wall outside my cabana completely accessible to any curious passerby.
This despite the fact that as collateral I’ve surrendered my passport to the surf shop which rented the board. Between yawns I wonder if I’m more naive than previously thought.
The board is faded purple, heavy as the sun and bearing the scars of a lifetime of use as a rental board in a tourist town; a poorly repaired fin cut near the nose; and a leash plug which has been ripped out and re-glassed at least once.
But, it’s the first board I’ve had my hands on in months and I savour the smell of the wax and the weight of it on my head as I walk toward the beach.
A beautiful Mexican girl smiles at me as I leave the hostel and in broken Spanish I tell her I will be back for breakfast when the ocean is done with me.
It is only 50 metres from the hostel to the beach, and though the sun hasn’t yet fully risen, there are ten people in the water at the southern end of Playa Zicatela.
The surf is small but the enthusiasm of a handful of locals is clearly strong.
Within an hour the break will be crowded with learn-to-surf tourists and an anger shared by angry old white dudes and Mexican teenagers alike.
I grew up in a town famed for surf tourism, so I understand the frustration of locals who might have had this break to themselves on a weekday morning in years past.
But it doesn’t stop me from smiling at the kid who splashes at me and yells “kook” as I paddle past him into a wave a few minutes into my session.
“Mas tranquilo mi amigo. La vida es buena,” I say as I paddle back past him in the line up.
He scowls and paddles further inside, no doubt now believing I am even more of a kook than first thought.
He’s right though, and that’s fine.
I get a few more fun sliders from a little wide of the break, making sure to leave a couple in each set for the locals on shortboards sitting closer to shore.
My mouth has a habit of getting me into fights my fists can’t handle, and in a foreign surf town I’ve already tested my luck.
But still, as I paddle back out after my fourth or fifth wave a girl looks at me and says loudly in english, “there he goes, the only one having any fun.”
I laugh and say I hope that’s not true.
But as the lineup is beginning to crowd with the rising sun, I tally that I’ve had more waves this morning than I have in the last year, and start paddling for one final ride.
I am closer to the pocket than I’ve been all morning; maybe two or three metres from the rocky point.
The other two longboarders are closer to the shore and don’t seem interested in the wave I’ve seen.
It’s not a set wave but it seems to be peaking wide of the point, so I’m optimistic it will break through to the shore.
It only takes two or three strokes before I’m able to stand up and run to the front the board to push it fully into the wave.
A moment later I need all my weight on my back foot at the tail for a bottom turn around the crest of the wave, and in front of a clearly terrified learn-to-surfer on a seven-foot foamy.
The rest of the short ride is uneventful, as I simply need to thread the board through the mass of bright blue and red surfschool sunshirts.
It ends without grace as I attempt to hang five into the closeout and just take the lip of the sharply breaking wave to the head, sending me shoulder first into the pebbled shore break.
I blow the saltwater out of my nose and the sand out of my mouth as I surface, smiling.
A few mutts circle me as I walk along the beach back to the hostel, taking the muzzle scratches I offer and then returning to chase their mates in the shallows.
Back at the hostel I lean the board against the wall of my cabana, and from the cafe order an americano and a plate of banana strawberry crepes.
I sit in the sun wearing my slowly drying boardshorts and a pair of broken sunnies I should probably replace.
In the dusty street dogs of all breeds wander between cars and through the legs of tourists.
At the surf shop across the streets where I hired the board, a boy teaches his younger brother to ride a quad bike.
It’s maybe 9am and the temperature is already in the high 20s, and will reach 35 before day’s end.
Nothing here is anything I’ve ever gone looking for. But at least for a few days, I am glad I found it.


All My Friends


I received a letter from a friend today.
She had just arrived in New York City after two weeks spent fulfilling her lifelong ambition of visiting Cuba.
She dreamed of a country stuck in a time warp; with decades-old taxis kept running to whisk her around to the bars where Ernest Hemingway visited and drank and wrote and loved.
The warmth and generosity of the locals amazed her, even as they catcalled her and undressed her with their eyes – such is the experience for a blonde eastern european girl in a latin american city.
She lamented the difficulty she had finding the Havana salsa bars she had romanticised for so many years.
She went out on her 26th birthday, wearing a lovely dress and observing the casual rhythm of the cuban people, learning to admire their happiness and kindness achieved despite abject poverty.
And she wrote to me, a sprawling letter of thousands of words, because she thought me deserving of reading about her experiences and her wonderful storytelling.
And a vast weight of emotion came over me. 

Aside from travel around North America and a summer spent in Tofino on Vancouver Island, for the past three years I have lived in Revelstoke.
One of my friends during this entire time is a girl who left town only this week, and who is returning home to Ontario before moving to Australia.
Even though I will likely see her in Perth around the New Year, it still feels like a significant part of our friendship is over, as this town has been an integral part of our relationship.
A year ago I went to see her in Ontario, and together with another friend we braved the near freezing conditions of the midnight Halloween Haunt at a Toronto theme park.
Turns out queuing for hours at night surrounded by screaming children and skulking teenagers for poorly haunted houses and roller coasters wasn’t as good as she remembered, and sure as shit wasn’t a good first experience for me.
But she had allowed me to join her in her visit home to meet her family and drink with her Dad and see her friends, and despite our friendship having faltered in the past year, I’m grateful to her for that.
Next year I will spend time with her and her boyfriend in Western Australia and we will drink scotch and fish and become sentimental.

I arrived in Revelstoke with very little idea of what I was getting myself into.
At 24 I had quit my job, sold my car and left my girlfriend to go travelling.
Not a quarter life crisis so much as a long-gestating dream I brought to fruition during a time when I had all the makings of a happy, traditional life.
One which I had never dreamed of.
I ended up in British Columbia after four months travelling the US and South America looking to spend a winter snowboarding, and had been encouraged to head for Revelstoke by a dude named Tom I had met at a music festival some years prior.
He had lived in town for around a year at this point, and met me at the Greyhound bus station on a grey and rainy October day.
I crashed on the couch in his home downtown for a few nights before I found my own place to live, and in that time he helped secure me a bartending job and introduced me to his local crew of friends.
Amongst them, to my absolute surprise, was a couple who I had also met at that same music festival back in Australia.
We had all heard about Revelstoke through different sources, and the likelihood that we would all move to such a small town on the other side of the world from home was, by my guess, infinitesimal.
It was an early sign that this town would go on to become somewhere I would call home forever, at least emotionally if not physically.
And I owe that largely to Tom, John and Lauren.

In two weeks I will travel from Revelstoke to Mexico City, and after ten days of travel south from Mexico into Guatemala I will meet with a friend from home.
If my memory is not too biased, we were inseparable throughout primary school and in the afternoons we would ride our BMX bikes around his neighbourhood and play video games.
He had an obsession with space and flight from a young age, and in the years we have lived apart he has become an aerospace engineer and now is involved with helicopter design.
He is flying from Australia to meet me, and it is the first time we will spend more than a day together in at least five years.
In fact the only time we have spent together in that time was about 24 hours earlier this year, during which the laughter and conversation flowed as freely as if we had never been apart.
His father died recently, and in May next year he will marry the woman he loves, so I feel incredibly lucky to be able to travel with him in such a critical time in his life.

But after our travel through Central America I will not return, at least not anytime soon, to Revelstoke.
And that is a bizarre concept to me; as I have made more of a life here in the last three years than I had made anywhere prior.
To not be within a five minute bike ride of the cafe my housemates have made an essential part of my daily routine in the past year.
To not be able to call Meg up to take her dog out for a hike to the alpine of some local hill.
To not be able to get on my mountain bike in my yard and within thirty minutes be biking world class trail.
To not be bartending at the Craft Bierhaus and watching friends and randoms struggle to stand up straight after three pints of 7 per cent IPA.
To not be able to swing by Simon’s workshop and borrow some tools as he builds his ambulance monster truck and espouses some wisdom.
To not live in a town that can host an art festival to which the whole town will turn out to dance and smile and support each other.
To not be able to go snowboarding solo on a powder day mid-winter and find a dozen friends to ride with by lunchtime purely by recognition of outerwear and riding style.
As Johnny said last night as he looked across the lounge at me through a wine-drunk and weed-smoke haze, where am I going to live?
What am I going to do?
Will I send him photos of the real world?
And although I don’t have answers to those questions just yet, I have no misgivings, just an appreciation that I have managed to surround myself with beautiful people in my life.

Though when we’re running out of the drugs
And the conversation’s winding away
I wouldn’t trade one stupid decision
For another five years of life

LCD Soundsystem – ‘All My Friends’


That’s A Paddlin’

In the middle of the Columbia River, about six hours south of Revelstoke by canoe, we paddled by a half-submerged stump.
Is ‘time by canoe’ an acceptable metric of distance? You get the idea.
I could use farthings or leagues and completely lose your interest.
Not that the sentence ‘there was a stump in a river’ is really an attention grabbing phrase, is it?
Not without Hemingway’s name preluding it.

I could attempt to emulate his style to but don’t expect too much from me.
“The house was set back from the street and in the front yard a cherry tree blossom had begun to whiten and become vibrant in much the same way the bitumen wasn’t.” 
Yeah, that dude and passive voice hey. I can’t compete.
But back to that half-submerged stump and the time I paddled past it.
Of course, the Columbia River is typically about 40 per cent fallen trees and parts thereof, so the occurance in itself was not exactly cause for a blog post.
And during a summer which followed such a snowy winter, the river’s swift growth and fierce inundation of the valley, this number is probably even higher.
Though not actually as high as my hyperbolic exaggeration. Again, you get the idea.
We came to this particular stump (you know the one) just south of Mt Cartier where the river was wider than I had previously seen.
And, as the water was higher than many previous summers, I would wager it was wider than many had previously seen.
And so it flowed slowly, or barely at all.
Certainly, with a headwind, it appeared to not assist the downriver travel of hungover and sunburnt paddlers in any capacity.
And it seemed our stumpy hero decided this particular point in the mighty Columbia was as good as any for snagging itself and letting the days continue to pass it by.
Anthropomorphising a stump! My university professor would shit if he read this.
But snag itself it did, whether consciously or not, it’s not my place to say. Though I did.
And not surprisingly, either, as his collection of gnarled and twisting roots had impressively remained intact and pointed skywards through a full 180 degree rotation above the water as if they still searched for the most nutrient rich and sturdy ground.
Had our stump (I’m bringing you into this, now) not been cut from his trunk by the ever-enthusiastic logging contractors which have carved their presence into the banks of the Columbia over decades, the trunk may have pointed south for 40 or 50 metres.
But now he was just a stump, separated at death from being a whole tree, his heavy head sank towards the river floor and his roots searched the skies from east to west.
But life was not wholly gone from this wayward stump, as it carried a curious passenger on its sundrenched bow.
A small snake had stretched itself out across the dry and raised section of stump and was presumably hoping to ride along the river until dry ground was closer than the current current allowed.
I assume, given the frigid waters of the Columbia and my lack of knowledge surrounding Canadian snakes swimming prowess, this particular wriggle stick had been on board since the last time our stump had gone ashore.
Either way this danger noodle must have had misgivings about its situation, with either another long and cold swim across the Columbia or the prospect of attempting to find food on a stump which itself was completely out of its depth.
It is all speculation though isn’t it?
I am not at all aware of the travelling nature or strategy of Canadian reptilia so my concern for the scaly sausage might have been wildly misplaced.
Perhaps she had brought with her a veritable bouquet of snakey snacks and was wholly comfortable sailing her makeshift ship as far as the current, or her life, would take her.
She may actually be entirely capable of swimming the 500 metres of icy water to shore and was just enjoying a spot in the sun while she had the chance.
Or perhaps her life was already at its end and being an astute creature she, as is her want, was content to end it there, on her throne of cedar and decay.
Given my thing was also just making my way down river at my own pace, any curiosity of the snake’s mortality was somewhat ironic.
I should just observe, offer guidance, take my photographs, and move on.
Oh, look! I found a moral to the story.
This started out as a sarcastic ramble and true to form it has pretty much remained so throughout with absolutely nothing worth reading.
Unless nonsense is your jam and you’ve time to kill.
Which I know you do.
You came here from Facebook, after all.
I have used Modest Mouse lyrics in my writing before and I will again, but Isaac Brock has a particularly pertinent line from one of his most famous songs and I’m going to throw it in here.

And we’ll all float on
alright already we’ll all float on alright
Don’t worry even if things end up a bit too heavy
we’ll all float on alright.

I was going to throw in the line about the fake jamaican and his scam, though that might not have brought home the same point.
These lyrics are a vague and generalised way to look at life and the way you live yours and the way the people around you live theirs, but in our own way we’re all just trying to keep our heads above water.
And as long as you aren’t trying to pull anyone under while keeping yourself up, you’re okay by me. 
So I guess I should hope just to continue on this river, sometimes paddling, sometimes floating, and maybe to find some good company to join me along the way.






My Grandfather’s Dive in the Port Hacking River

“Oh, it’s Nancy!”
My grandfather’s eyes are suddenly alight at the sight of a woman standing with her back to us in the kitchen of the Cartwright wing.
To his credit, whoever the woman was, at a distance she did resemble his wife.
But he had been told three times Nancy won’t be visiting today.
“Nan was here yesterday, Dad,” my Mum says absently as she files back the nail on his index finger.
“She’ll be back tomorrow,” she says.
“Oh. Oh of course. Would you like some iced coffee? I can get some iced coffee for us.”
This was the first thing he asked when we arrived, surprised at the sudden appearance of guests and making an attempt at hospitality.
He repeats it as an automatic response which failed to mask his confusion as to who I was, and whether or not he had seen his daughter today.
But his confusion did not lead to anxiety or anger, which is the response I would have expected when I last saw him three years ago.
A concoction of medications dulls his character, and the golden retriever licking at his free hand placates him.
“This is a nice hospital, isn’t it?” he says without emotion.
The use of the word hospital, instead of something less specific, catches me off guard.
He seems aware of the world and his place in it.
He is aware of the lack of control he has over his situation, and maybe even of his degrading mental state.

Despite his easy confusion he was amicable and animated so we asked the nurse if we could take him to town for a coffee.
The nurse said it was fine and Grandad agreed, though I don’t know if he knew what he was agreeing to.
He hummed and muttered as we walked out to the car.
It was a tick he apparently recently developed, and which reminds me of an idling outboard motor.
It annoys my Mum but doesn’t seem to signify any distress or discomfort.
He sits in the front passenger seat of the Subaru Forester which he drove across the country only a few years prior, but which now seems unfamiliar to him.
He mentions the beauty of the eucalyptus forest across the road as we pull out of the Carramar driveway, but otherwise stays silent as we drive towards town.
I am more cautious of his movements than I need to be as we walk through the crowds of the Noosa Harbour’s Sunday markets.
He walks slowly, intrigued by the couples dancing to the live music being played at the wine bar and by the young boy riding his scooter along the docks between the boats.
We make our way into the cafe next door to the fish and chip shop I worked in as a teenager, and Grandad attempts to clear the plates of patrons sitting out the front.
I apologise unnecessarily and usher him inside for the long-promised iced coffee and half a chocolate chip muffin.

Sitting next to my Mum with a spoonful of ice cream in his hand, he looks up with a smile as I ask him about a nickname friends knew him by as a young man.
He’s wearing the Shark hat which I can remember him wearing anytime he left the house during my life, and reminds me of how he used to be known as the Great White Hunter.
A keen fisher and freediver for much of his life, he used to sit my brother and I down in front of the same spearfishing film any time we visited as children.
He hasn’t been in the ocean in over a decade, but at the mention of his old nickname he launches into a story about diving in Sydney’s Port Hacking River.
Suddenly coherent and alert, he regales us with the time a humpback whale mother and calf appeared in the harbour waters in front of him as he dove with friends as a teenager in the 1950s.
It’s a story my mother and I have heard ad nauseam over the years, and we are able to fill in the blanks when the dementia steals the words from him.
But I smile as I listen, because selfishly I feel it is a personal victory that I can elicit some excitement in a man who has forgotten how to do it for himself.

He is not a perfect man, and there were times in recent memory when he was not even a decent man.
Since I was young he battled depression, self medicated with alcohol and refused treatment.
I left Australia in 2014 and afterwards he made a quick slide into the throes of dementia, and has lived in supervised care since October last year.
His mental state had been on the decline for years, so from the other side of the world I gave little thought to his changing circumstance.
But he was there on my 10th birthday when all I wanted was to play golf with my grandparents.
He always made sure there was a bag of Minties in the old Land Cruiser’s glove box to sneak my brother and I when he would take us for a drive around the Cooroy ranch.
He always had a story to share of his travels and a photo to go with it, and that inspired me.
He still has the stories, and the memories.
His words may fail him now and new memories won’t last, but when we returned him to Carramar he bid me farewell with a handshake and a grin.
“It was great to see you, after all these years!”
The moment of recognition was a shock to me, and perhaps to him, and I stumbled out of the hospital barely containing tears I hadn’t expected to come.