From Mitchell River National Park to Perth

15 Oct.

Fast asleep by 8pm, awake at 5:45. I like that schedule. I slept fully, completely. In a large, blanket covered bed, with blinds to keep out the sun. Alone. With doves cooing – a sound from PHX, AZ. Another place I have once been. I’m glad I’m not there now. I’m glad to be here. I’m just needing – Rachel, Katie. A friend who wants to sit across from me. Listen and share for a very long time. Kim is busy. Everyone is so busy. I understand, I’ve been there too. But right now, my life is so simple. My days are so free. I just need to get on Goat, move my legs in circles. Not get trapped by staying in one little spot. A backyard full of dog-dug holes, roses growing up against a tin wall. Orange trees, lemon, and a cross between lemon and mandarin.
The view! From the hut doorway as I’d read or write – to myself or a beautiful friend far away. I’ll miss that view. Transition time. It hurts. A body with so much feeling. Every inch of my skin. The hairs that stand on end. Stomach aches. From morning hunger, mild anxiety. Soul gardening friends. Hands reached out. I borrowed a shirt from the closet of Kim’s guest room. The room I am sleeping in. The neckline has been cut away. Leaving shoulders tanned by a northern sun, bare. Begging for gentle touching. A resting hand. A little care. Innocence. In Tash’s hand-made skirt, that fits me so beautifully. When I suck my stomach in. Try to dance gracefully. But when I stood naked in front of the mirror, I saw collections of fat, unevenly tanned skin. A belly extended. Not even a baby in there. Criticism. But like I told Pete, there are better things to do with a life than spend 6 hours at a gym working out. Too much cake to eat.

Depression. That lurks around cement corners. Is this what’ll happen when I get back to Bellingham? The shock of not being on the move anymore. Will the friends I’ve been missing fill the gap of not traveling? I want movement. Exploring. In my body. On this planet. “How was your trip up North?” Already those 5 weeks have become a “wow, really good, such a special place up there.” No! It was not a one sentence, to be summarized, experience. It was the smell of rain on sandstone rocks. It was spotting quolls in the daytime – at Little Merten’s and down by the river while looking at crocodile tracks. It was Annette putting her hair up before getting in the shower, gasping at the first shot of cold water. It was her in a sunhat, laptop rested against her hip, walking back from the office or Ranger John’s hut. It was that night sky. The tiny bats and the silhouette of eucalyptus trees, shooting stars zipping by in the background. It was a cuddly man occasionally climbing into my tent after 8:30pm. It was letting my body feel everything it needed to feel – fear, anger, hope, joy. It was the beauty in someone asking me to say exactly what I meant in each line of a poem. It was the sound of helicopters. The blades whirling. Our fan, the one I spent so much time laying beneath, mimicked it so well. That place, in the Northern reach of the Kimberley. It was finches. Their chip chip chirping. Magnificent crimsons. Cuuuuute double barred ones. Long-tailed finches too. Even if no masked or Gouldians. It was the smell of fires that had jumped the King Edward River, and then the main road leading to the park. It was waiting, sometimes impatiently, for John – always jumping between all the things he wanted to get done. It was coming in late from the field and the phone immediately ringing, “do do doo di di.” Ranger john offering me and Annette a movie, a cold drink, some humorous company. Because that’s what we became. A make-shift, blurred role, quirky as all hell, temporary family. It was watching the dirt rinse off my body and down the shower drain. It was Annette cutting my hair on our porch. Me saying, “no, it has to be shorter, cut more.” The way it’d go all floppy and flippy every morning and Annette would exclaim at 5am, “wow, what a groovy hairdo!” It was tea leaves tossed out the doorway from a kettle Annette filled half a dozen times a day. I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I find it so heartbreaking when someone asks how something so amazing has been and all I say is, “good, incredible.” Maybe two or three other things. I don’t know why I don’t say more. And I know they’re satisfied. Free to walk away. In my mind I see green ants digging into my shoulders. Serves me right for crawling through tangles of monsoon vine thicket, just trying to get to those dang quolls. “You are a really feeling person aren’t you?” “Yeah. That’s a truth.” No, it was not GOOD up there. It was hot. Oppressively hot. It was peaceful. It was full. It was moon watching. It was barefoot rock climbing and feeling hard soil on the pads of my feet. It was a brief visit from weebills, all the others I missed. And a new bird species to admire, write down, nearly every day. It was Bradshaw figures dancing on the underside of a massive piece of rock. In my first ‘real’ conversation with Pete, he asked if I ever wished I had someone to share all those special moments with. He was referring to Tasmania. I said no, at that time, it felt right to be alone. I should have said, “the other night, 45 minutes before sunset, I went out walking down a slowly disappearing road. When I turned back, the colors of the evening making their final show, 2 red-tailed black cockatoos cooed and flew where moments ago the sun had just been. For the tiniest second, then, I wished someone stood next to me to see them go. But then I knew it didn’t matter. Because with or without someone, we are each completely alone.
I let those beautiful people under my sweaty skin. Ready to go or not, I’m always leaving. Looking for my country. When will I ever be home?