Read Part 1 here.

John Geiger in his 2009 book ‘The Third Man Factor‘, documents what has been referred to as a ‘sensed-presence effect’ in mountain climbers, solo sailors and ultra-endurance athletes. The requirement for this effect? Monotony, darkness, barren landscapes, isolation, cold, injury, dehydration, hunger, fatigue, sleep deprivation, and so on.

Michael Shermer writing in the Scientific American in 2010 tells of the experiences of four-time winner of the two-wheeled ‘Race Across America’ and Slovenian soldier, Jure Robic. He explained to the New York Times that during one race he engaged in combat a collection of mailboxes he thought were enemy troops. Another year he found himself being chased by a “howling band” of black-bearded horsemen: “Mujahedeen, shooting at me. So I ride faster.”

It seems that my experiences while out solo hiking are not rare – they are perhaps just visions brought on by cold and solo adventures. Even Charles Lindbergh sensed a presence during his transatlantic flight to Paris: “The fuselage behind me becomes filled with ghostly presences—vaguely outlined forms, transparent, moving, riding weightless with me in the plane … conversing and advising on my flight, discussing problems of my navigation, reassuring me, giving me messages of importance unattainable in ordinary life.”

By no means am I comparing my experiences with those of Everest climbers, famous endurance athletes or Lindbergh, but what ever the cause or reason, feeling a presence in the dark of night, alone in the wilderness, certainly adds another level of intrigue to a solo adventure. I don’t reach for an extraordinary explanation, I simply accept the brain is a wonderful thing in the solitude of nature.

The sunrise

By the time I broke camp I still had another one-and-a-half hours of dark remaining but now I was on my way to the beach and the rising sun. Mostly downhill and within an hour the pre-dawn light stood like a beacon from the strange and somewhat uncomfortable night that had passed. The crisp and clear sky had its familiar deep blues, yellow and red – the southerly wind was cold but I felt lighter now and happier. Far off in the distance a 4wd with its headlights on was making use of the low tide and compact sand and heading towards me making it the first human contact I’d had.

After an hour of walking I was within the beach camping zone where quiet campsites nestled in behind the dunes hid the occasional 4wd and campervan, or more rarely, a tent. Unlike the prime tourist times where this part of the beach can resemble a city of campsites, it now looked pleasant as the invisible occupants slept.

Back inland again

I kept a constant pace on the beach as previous storms had taken most of the dunes in sections and high tide wouldn’t be a fun time to traverse the beach – with little or nothing to walk on. High tide was several hours away so the timing worked out nicely. After 3 hours I’d leave the beach and hike inland along a quiet fire break trail and even make my way off trail for a while to cut short a section of the track. It wasn’t the best experience but it often feels good to rely purely on navigation through dense forest even if it means you get to carry battle scars for several weeks.

Once I’d rejoined the hiking trail I’d set my mind on the final hike back to the canoe. With the daylight hours disappearing I thought I’d attempt to be back at my car before it was completely dark. The one thing I tried to keep out of my mind was the wind. It had been strong – very strong and paddling across a lake, solo in a two-person canoe can be a difficult experience and I’d rather at least see the waves coming as opposed to have them crash over the gunwales in the dark.

I followed my footprints from the previous day and tiredness now made me look down more and every now and then I’d get into a brief conversation with myself and start doing time calculations. “At this pace I’ll be back at the boat by 2pm, its a 3-hour paddle and sunset is 5pm, that’s cutting it fine”. I have a simple rule when out there on an adventure. I don’t dwell too much on what lies ahead. Only just enough to ensure no navigational mistakes are made but not enough that it creates a sense of urgency or anxiety.

It’s interesting how those final miles feel the longest. My legs were tiring and I was looking forward to the canoe paddle. Hiking on the flat and paddling are about the same pace so the idea of resting my legs while still moving at the same speed was appealing. In the canoe I’d stowed food and sugary drinks for the return paddle – a smile came across my face again when I thought about them.

Little boat on a big lake

Casting the canoe off from the wharf I let it glide along the river while I drank and ate and laughed to myself about how good simple things can taste. Then everything was quiet. It gave me a moment to reflect and I realised yet again that this place is special and it has been special to people for thousands of years too. The sighing of the wind in the trees, the reflective black waters. Two hours of paddling and I was now looking out across Lake Cootharaba. The wind had created abundant waves so I reached for my kayak paddle and stowed the single canoe paddle away. It was time for one last effort. It’s a big lake – its shallow and exposed to the prevailing south-easterly winds. Today the wind was strong and the lake was big and my boat, tiny.

Paddling in a cross breeze is not fun. It’s as simple as that. I trimmed the boat as much as I could but the wind had other ideas so I thought about other things. I thought about what I’d just done and what I’d seen and how fortunate I am to move through the wild areas quietly and efficiently. Then I swore out loud. A wave crashed across the boat and wet everything and then within minutes the wind dropped. Just like that. It was the final act for the day.

The final 20 minutes the boat glided and I turned to shore and sat motionless as the canoe slid up against the sand. I turned my head torch on and walked up the sandy path to my car. That was it. As quietly as it all started it was over.

Out here there are no finish lines, just quiet satisfaction.

Stats

Total Distance = 112km
33.2km canoe
78.8km hike

Total ascent = 1475m
Total Time = 23hr 32min

Day 1
56.7km
12 hrs 8 minutes
Ascent 979

Day 2
55.3km
11 hours 24 minutes
Ascent 496

Base weight (hiking)
7.5kg
Plus
2 litres of water
Plus food

With a downward swing of my arms I gently dropped the canoe onto the sand beside the water. My exposed legs were feeling the cold as the first light started painting a previously blackened sky. Several trips to the car and back would see my gear loaded into the canoe’s deck near the bow. Then it was a simple case of smoothly sliding the canoe out towards the rising sun. It was like paddling into a painting that is slowly stripped of colour as the sun gains height.

Under an hour and I’m exiting the lake to the north into the narrow confines of the upper Noosa river. Up here the reflections are so perfect that it makes you question what is real. Am I looking up into the heavens … or down into the blue cloudless sky? Every time I enter this stretch of water I feel a sense of calm return. It’s at this point that I have these cliched pseudo-realisations. The trees stand, the water flows, the birds call – the sun comes up – this all happens regardless of us and our thoughts or beliefs – regardless of me and my canoe – so considering all this, what is more significant? “It’s too early for such deep thoughts”, I think to myself as I continue to paddle – attempting my best stroke to keep the canoe smoothly flowing forward. 

The river narrows into a series of twists and turns, then briefly widens again near the vehicle-accessible camping area known as Harry’s Hut for a kilometre or two, before narrowing again. I’m heading to campsite 3, a larger camping area beside the river with a connection to the Cooloola Great Walk, the hiking trail I’d soon join. It’s at this location that it can start feeling remote. No sounds from so-called civilisation, just the wind moving through trees and the distance surf, over the large forested dunes to the east.

Up ahead on the right I can see the wooden wharf marking my destination. Three hours after pushing off I’m fastening my boat with an old bike lock to a timber rail and grabbing my hiking gear in a transition from water to land.

Settling into a rhythm takes time and I find myself stopping to adjust straps and remove warm clothing before I finally find that familiar pace. Winding through low heath the track is wet and so are my shoes but I knew I’d soon climb. Cooloola National Park is deceiving. It might not be set in the mountains of The Great Dividing Range to the west but the vegetation on these ancient sand dunes hides a terrain of ridges and valleys all running east-west, when my direction is north. This means the trail often winds its way upwards in a series of long, slow switchbacks and then plunges down again. 

Hiking is a great reminder of perpetual forward motion, even when compared to running. Running has two basic gears , you run or if you can’t sustain that pace, you can slow right down to a walk. With hiking there is just hiking with its subtle variation of speed, while the other option is to stop – and that doesn’t make sense if you have a destination waiting for you. You hike because of the weight you’re carrying, the terrain and the distance. After a while it becomes more efficient than running and it has a beautiful simplicity. It allows you to hear more than just your own breathing and foot steps.

An Ancient Land

According to the local indigenous people, the Gubbi Gubbi, on whose land I move through, the name Cooloola, refers to the sound, a sigh, the wind makes as it moves though the cypress trees. You can hear that sigh out here, its everywhere and you realise how connected you can become once you are removed from modern distraction. This is an ancient land and it feels like it too. Time here is not measured on a human scale. This landscape predates us all and for a while I try and leave my somewhat rushed walking pace and settle into a rhythm more suitable of this landscape.

Convicts escaping the brutality of the English colony of Moreton Bay in the early 19th century after being stolen from their indigenous lands half a world away, made the trek up here too and lived amongst the original inhabitants for a time. They became known as ‘bunder’ or ‘white, black fella’. I can see why they were attracted.

As I climb another sandy ridge amongst the wallum, flanked by scribbly gum trees, I feel the wind pick up. It’s coming from the south west and it’s getting colder already – its only mid afternoon. I reached another walkers camp and sit down briefly with my pack off for a quick break. Twenty kilometres to go to my camp for the night at my current hiking pace meant I had 4 hours left. My destination was going to be in thick, tall rainforest, in fact, the tallest sand-based rainforests in the world, so the last hour or more was going to require a head torch. I wasn’t really looking forward to that, but “it is what it is”, I thought to myself as I once again slid my backpack on.

Into the dark

With an hour to go the vegetation changed and I was relieved the terrain had too. Less climbing now but the light was fading and I was tired. I’d been on the move for 11 hours and like all memorable adventures, I would have preferred to stop about 2 hours ago. Moving through a green tunnel of palms and figs quickly turned into a black one. The wind hadn’t dropped at all and I was worried about branches falling. I couldn’t see them anyway, so no point in focusing on that I guess –  just keep moving forward. Finally, after the longest mile – which, as they say, is always the last one, I turned right and into the camp area. For the last 30 minutes I had been rehearsing in my head. Choose tent site wisely but quickly, take bag off, get warm, get tent out, pitch tent, put kettle on gas stove, take shoes off – sigh and then finally, rest. When I arrived, instead of jumping into action I stood there dazed for several minutes trying to make sense of my surroundings, before finally enacting my plan. By the time I’d cooked an awful meal and had my one and only treat – a snickers bar, I drank some electrolytes, jumped into my sleeping bag, put my headphones on and listened to a podcast about hiking. Before long I’m plugging my phone into a battery charger and turning my light off. It had been a long day.

A strange night – again

It was one of those nights. It was cold and the wind was strong so the trees were loud. I’d pitched the tent on a sandy site in the dark amongst the rainforest and was too tired to care. It was out of square and not set right so my head pressed against one side. I’d fallen asleep just before 8pm and must have woken every few hours. Restless, I was waiting for my 4am alarm to go off. I looked at my watch, “damn, its only 1:30am”. I must have fallen asleep again, when I felt a tapping on my shoulder. Gentle, but my immediate thought was a finger, more specifically, a finger nail tapping against my shoulder. Two taps. Then again slightly harder on my neck. Two taps. Then again, this time on my head, right on the top, hard, enough to wake me, and as I came too, I’m actually saying; ‘ok, ok ouch, enough!” “What? Not this again”, I thought as I reached for my head torch and unzipped the tent door.

This was not the first time I’ve had peculiar things happen on solo camps, but it was the first time I’ve actually felt like I was touched. My need to find a simple answer had me putting my shoes on, a jacket, then quickly inspecting the area around my tent. A bloody Bush Turkey I’m sure. I looked at my watch. It was 3:30am, sunrise was 3 hours away. A bit early for a bird. I look for prints, I listen for any movement on the dry leaves on the ground. The sand was too compacted from rain two-days earlier. I was hardly leaving a mark after analysing my own shoes prints on the ground. No time to ponder anymore, it was time for coffee and to prepare for the 12 hour journey ahead. You can’t afford to let your mind wander too far while isolated, alone in the bush.  You need to focus on reality and once again I found myself repeating “it is what it is”. I’d have to log this down as yet another strange happening brought on by cold, fatigue and the simple fact, I was alone.

To be continued …