The Outdoor Type

Interview with Louis-Philippe Loncke

David Rutter — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 21:16:35 +0000

Interview with Louis-Philippe Loncke

By David Rutter

Louis-Philippe Loncke’s adventures are many and varied. He has crossed deserts, islands, trekked in the Himalayas and crossed Iceland. He has spent a lot of time in Australia, and is the first person to complete a solo unsupported trek across the West MacDonnell National Park, the first to cross Fraser Island unsupported, and the first to complete a north-south crossing of the Simpson Desert. Louis-Philippe hails from Belgium.

What adventures do you have planned?

I have about 20+ ideas right but I’m focusing on the Poland Trek (http://poland-trek.blogspot.com/) that will start early May. I started kayaking last summer on the canals of Belgium, this one will be much longer and harder as I’m be on a river. It’s also the first time I’ll mix different means of progression: on foot, by packraft and by kayak.

Alongside, I’m working on part II of my Iceland Trek expedition (http://iceland-trek.blogspot.com/). It has been delayed again this year as I need to find a technical partner to develop a new snowsled. After Iceland, I’ll normally go back to Tasmania, I promised to come back and attempt a winter crossing of the island.

What led to you doing so many adventures in Australia?

I came to Australia in 2004 as a backpacker and did about but found more as I discovered the adventure community. I came back for a year in 2006 and start the first expedition. Why did I start in Australia? It’s the place I had experience and I had been inspired by Jon Muir.

And I’m not finished with Australia and its desert or mountains. There a lot of adventure or scientific expeditions to do and a lot to explore especially in the North East of Western Australia.

What lead to the decision to cross the Simpson Desert, and the route you took?

The people who dropped me at the far West of the MacDonnells range I crossed walking, had just crossed the Simpson desert with their 4WD. They told me it was beautiful and I asked if there were any walking tracks. After viewing more photos of the Simpson, I finally found about a few people who crossed parts of it but mainly supported. And then I found Lucas Trihey’s trek from West to East unsupported and just believed it was more remote to attempt a much longer expedition from North to South. It was an entire year of planning but a major world first in my pocket.

The route planning is always the hardest, especially when there’s no money to go and see how it’s like before going. So it’s about finding the average distance possible, look at the maps and find out the fastest and safest route. You don’t need to be an athlete to do a world first, you have to want it, plan it very well and take a lot of risks. But when you are on the terrain, it’s there that you learn how to find the solutions to the best paths. I designed a cart that was very good in the valleys between the dunes of the Simpson but weak in the soft sand. The idea was a longer route on hard ground and only crossing sand dunes on the places they were low.

Why do you embark on your adventures - what motivates you to do it?

I go always to places that I believe are interesting to visit for me. But I like it when there’s a challenge but the challenge mainly came because of cost and ecology. Resupply underway costs a lot or can be nearly impossible. I embark because even after preparing for months I still have questions, and some questions will come during the expedition as well. The reward is to find all the answers to make the expedition a success. The last year I shifted more to the personal mission I have to make people more aware about the water protection. It’s not only consuming less but also not pollution the water that will enable us to survive. So what motivates is about the sharing of the values of the outdoor and responsible consumption. I still keep solo world first treks in mind for when I’m ready. For these expeditions, I do perform science tests to measure the effect of stress on the mind in extreme environment. It’s very interesting what the scientist come up with as results.

What do you like and dislike about it?

I like my passion and the choices of expeditions I make. No dislikes but certainly it can be more enjoyable if I had real sponsors paying me and perhaps a partner to share the adventure while doing it.

At The Outdoor Type we have delved into our memories to find our earliest memory of being in the outdoors. What is your earliest outdoor memory?

I remember my first scout camp at the age of 7. I was scared of everything, the forest, the dark, the sound of the wind in the trees, the insects… Now I have less fears or I’d say I shifted the fear to a higher barrier and I like to see how far I can put the barrier.

What it Means to be a Hurler

Guest Contributor — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 13:06:08 +0000

What it Means to be a Hurler

By Marin Sardelic

Here at The Outdoor Type we are more than proud to sponsor the Hurlers football team. There is no denying a vested interest exists, for I am a Hurler myself. This article by my teammate Marin introduces much of what it means to be a ‘Hurler’. It encapsulates the pureness of the outdoor experience for us as park footballers, blokes and good mates.

Blair Paterson

The Hurlers - Putting the ball back into Football

Being outdoors means many things to many people whether you are an extreme adventurer, a fisherperson seeking a few hours peace and quiet, or you simply like counting the clouds while lying on a soft patch of grass. For me it is somewhere in between, for being a Hurler combines getting out in the open air, the thrill of competition, pushing one’s body as far as it will go and anticipating the bounce of the ball.

A ‘Hurler’ you ask? More commonly our genus is that of a ‘weekend warrior’, one of the thousands of men, women and children across the land who have registered to play competitive football each winter.

The Hurlers, are a diverse family of late thirty-to-forty something men, members of a local football team within the Hurlstone Park Wanders Football Club. Currently we ply our craft in the Canterbury Districts Soccer Football Association Over 35’s Competition. Anything but rag tag, we are from a variety of backgrounds and professions including builders, doctors, salesmen, firemen, bankers, teachers and bureaucrats. Known for our style and fashion and our empty trophy cabinet, for over ninety minutes a week we become footballers, athletes, unashamed poets, artists and comedians.

I really look forward to our games each weekend for four reasons.

The first is that my kids love to make an afternoon outing of it. Living vicariously through them, they are like my own little supporters club. The day will come when they realise that Daddy really isn’t going to be a Socceroo or even get to play at Sydney FC. For now, who am I to tell them otherwise when they cheer every run, celebrate every goal and console me when we lose? Being one of many Hurler fathers, the kids enjoy playing with the other Hurler kids who come to support their dads. I’m not sure who enjoys it more but it is a great day out when all the kids come along.

The second is purely for the sport. With the increasing interference of work and a young family, the opportunity for exercise and individual recreational activities are prioritised well down on the to-do list. The weekly game of football provides 90 minutes for me to get outside, stretch the legs, have a kick around and maybe even get a goal.

With aging, the first thing you notice is that the mind and body no longer communicate as well as they did before. Though the mind still pictures the swivel, the turn, the inch-perfect pass, the top corner shot, those once silky touches in reality left the feet many years prior; and these days speed is a relative concept depending on the age and size (girth not loftiness) and fitness of the opposition. Little knocks become blows and aches become pains that seem to linger for days. But in some sort of topsy-turvy universe alignment, our enjoyment levels have increased exponentially to the skills we now lack.

For the Hurlers, the most commonly used form of communication is the ‘I’m sorry’ wave to a teammate following a pass that doesn’t quite make its target; the shot that went well wide; the corner that didn’t make the goal square; or the goal that was just scored (by the opposition). With the odds of your next pass, shot or defensive effort being off the mark we shrug, we encourage, we laugh and we play on.

Sometimes we see other teams arguing and fighting with each other even when they are winning, oddly these tend to be the same teams that don’t stay together after the game, but more on that later. Not to say that we aren’t competitive, but we appreciate the finer points of football rather than winning alone. Playing a game well as a team and not taking ourselves too seriously invariably leads to more post game merriment than an unconvincing or undeserved win could ever achieve.

We are lucky where we live to experience the misnomer of a Sydney Winter. Okay, it does get a little cold in July, but overall we are blessed with many sun-filled Saturday afternoons to undertake a weekly park tour of the Inner West and Canterbury districts. Playing at fields like Callan Park on the water at Rozelle, Blair Park with the enclosed tree lined atmosphere and Pratten Park – the latter of which was not long ago was holding the First Division equivalency of Rugby league and Football – is a treat as these venues provide the scenery and setting to really enjoy the outdoors and add some atmosphere to the games. My favourite grounds are Ewan Park and Blick Oval, our home grounds. These two ovals contrast somewhat in their feel and setting, yet both are equally as welcoming and comforting each time we return to set up for the game.

This leads me onto the third reason why I look forward to Saturdays - The Hurlers Match Day experience.

In France, the rugby teams coined the phrase ‘the third half’ to describe the post-game activities, with the focus more on the foie gras than football. For the Hurlers, we could probably go so far as to call it the ‘Second Game’ for the match day experience because it is almost longer than the game itself. There are many little customs, rituals and rites of passage. This tends to start on Thursday afternoon or Friday morning at the latest with a chain of emails discussing everything from one’s availability for the upcoming games, to formations, to which strip to wear, to broader football and social commentary, to a few jokes and everything in between.

Come Saturday, driving to the game is a carefully co-ordinated activity with military precision on who is driving and where to meet and when. Post-match, like many teams we enjoy a beer or two and select a ‘Man of the Match’ player of the game. This is voted by the wives, family and girlfriends who come to watch the game. The trophy is made weekly by a fellow Hurler. The trophies are encouraged to be handmade out of knick-knacks and bric-a-brac, and while the end results could be considered worthless they are priceless mementos for those who win them. Heartily accepted and recognised, the trophy encourages artistic interpretation both on and off the field (and a good mix of cardboard, sticky tape, crayons, glue, adeptness and love). The selection of beers, oddly, does not!

The Beers of the Week is what differentiates the Hurlers from many a team. It isn’t so much the beer, well, partly it is. Beer duty is allocated weekly to two Hurlers on a rotational basis. The unwritten rule is that the post-game beer needs to be foreign or fancy, not a standard domestic beer such as VB or Tooheys. Well that isn’t true; there is a Hurler’s Handbook which outlines the Hurlers lore and rites of passage. It’s on our website; yes we even have our own website (www.hurlers.org).

We have also put together our own training kit, kitbags with squad numbers – our own unsanctioned third game kit. Our season calendar includes a Family Day, Post Game Penalty shoot outs, Opposites Day (where we all swap positions – forwards are backs and backs are forwards), an End of Season Awards Night of Nights with Parkies Awards recognising Hurlers’ Achievements over the season in over 30 categories, and the Manchild Trophy for the Best and Fairest and Silliest Player of the Year.

After our games, win, lose or draw the Hurlers stay behind. Many afternoons have turned dark and cold but the Hurlers remain to have a beer. Often an opposition team walks past, having won that game wondering why we are there as a group, enjoying ourselves while they disperse. We don’t answer; it is just what we Hurlers do.

Being a Hurler is a great way to play sport. I would recommend the Hurler way to anyone in their latter years of competitive sport debating whether to keep playing or hang up the boots. Find or form a team where social games become just that. It provides many sunny days outdoors with a nice run in the park. Most of all it gives one an opportunity to have a few laughs and beers with mates and a chance to relive the dreams of youth and to fully live your adulthood. We may never be professional footballers but there is nothing stopping us from acting as if we could be.

Football is meant to be fun, play it and above all don’t forget to enjoy it.

Finally, my fourth reason for looking forward to Hurler games: to get myself outdoors and to have a ball while I’m at it.

Note: If you are an Over 35 football team looking for a pre or post season game or even a mid-season friendly, and the Hurlers seem like a team you’d like to play, please contact us via the Outdoor Type.

Homepage image: Rob Morrison

About the Author:
Marin Sardelic is a current member of the Hurlestone Park Wanderers 2011 Over 35’s Div 2 A team, better known as the Hurlers. He has been allocated Squad Number 14. With too much time on his hands, he is a regular contributor to http://www.Hurlers.org and Vimeo and has previously been published in the Sydney Morning Herald ‘FitzFiles’ and internationally in ‘The Fiver’.

Roz Savage Completes Indian Ocean Row

David Rutter — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 06:06:25 +0000

Roz Savage Complete Indian Ocean Row

By David Rutter

Roz Savage has become the first woman to row across the “Big Three” oceans - the Atlantic, Pacific and Indian.

On the 4th of October she made landfall in Grand Baie, Mauritius, to complete a five month row across the Indian Ocean after setting out from Fremantle, Australia on the 14th of April 2011.

After rowing 15,000 miles, taking over 5 million oar strokes, and spending over 500 days at sea, Roz has achieved her goal of not only crossing the oceans, but raising awareness of the world’s environmental issues.

You can read The Outdoor Type interview with Roz here.

Terry’s Travel Mug Tips

Blair Paterson — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 06:49:38 +0000

Terry’s Travel Mug Tips

Story by Blair Paterson

Hello. My name is Terry, Terry Travel Mug. You may have heard the remark: “Have a go, ya mug!” Well, as a mug I find this expression somewhat rude and defamatory. As a proud member of said species Muggas sippas noice beveragis, I suggest you make yourself a nice cuppa, take a seat and grant me the respect I deserve for what I am about to divulge.

Because as the euphemism suggests: I am about to HAVE A GO!! For I am not a thermos flask, nor am I a baby sipper – I am a whole lot more…

Why am I cranky? Have you noticed the glut of cheap travel mugs on supermarket shelves, camp-store stands and internet carts? Those mugs are charlatans, infiltrating the very cause for which my species has come to be.

Don’t be fooled! Before you purchase a phony I implore:

First look hard at yourself: What do you want from a travel mug?
Then look hard at your mug: Will it perform to your highest expectations when out and about? Is it merely a mug of promotional gimmickry or is there some substance?
And then look hard at the union between you and your beloved mug, when you touch lips and what follows is a soulful and beautiful transfer of fluid: Has your beverage spilt all over you or the ground? Are you scolded? Are you ruing the purchase of a sub-par item which promised so much and delivered so little?

Now, you may not kiss your pet dog as you do your travel mug – what happens between you and your mutt is none of my business – but believe it or not we travel mugs compare similarly to those smelly canines: as ‘man’s best friend’. I urge you: think about it. Please, think about it. Your relationship with your travel mug is unique and special.

A good travel mug need not be expensive. A good travel mug, however, does need some important attributes about it to carry forth on your most far-fetched and interesting adventures. So in regards to HAVING A GO, I would like to further share with you some secrets worth considering at the retail shelves, stands and carts to help you through the arduous selection of a travel mug worthy of all your Outdoor Type expectations.

The attributes are:

A good seal around the lid: Absolutely important! Travel mugs come with screw- or press-on lids. Both have pros and cons: the screw-on lid ensures security against bumps and knocks yet make for an uncomfortable ‘lip feel’ when sipping on the rim of the mug’s screw thread, while the press-on is less secure yet has a more comfortable sipping lip. Regardless of the type, whenever you drink from a mug with a poor seal, the contents will likely dribble all over your top. This can be catastrophic because not all people look good in wet t-shirts. And if a spill were to occur while driving, the consequences might be far more serious (to my knowledge hands free travel mugs are yet to be invented).

Reasonable thermal qualities: I say “reasonable” because almost any double-insulated mug with a lid will possess thermal qualities. More so, you want to be sure when you hold your mug that it will not burn your hands.

A non-plastic inner-mug: Obviously, it’s complicated to have fine bone China in our travel mugs. But taste is important and nobody likes their beverage tainted by old plastic. Not only does it taste yucky, think also of the toxins you’re imbibing. I strongly suggest selecting a travel mug with an easy-to-clean, hard-wearing stainless steel inner. Travel mugs also come with baked enamel or ceramic inners; these are also fine although they may chip or crack over time. Just don’t under any circumstance get plastic!

A useable sipper: The sippers in travel mug lids come in a multitude of forms and designs, from slide or screw panels, flip-up leavers or straw configurations. Whatever the type, be sure your sipper flows nicely. Because you don’t want the fluid to develop back pressure and all of a sudden spew forth a more-than-sippable quantity of hotness into your mouth. Ouchies! Burnies!

Sturdy overall form: You want something durable. If you’re the adventurous type, be confident your mug won’t get squashed or cracked in your over-stuffed pack. If you’re the car-sipping type, make sure your mug fits into your vehicle’s cup holders. If you’re the butter-fingers type (aren’t we all?), rest assured in the fact that if you drop your trusty vessel the trauma of the landing won’t render it useless from beyond that moment.

An adaptable handle: “Get a handle on it!” If you desire a mug with an ‘open’ handle (a fixed single point at the top), these are useful for hooking over fences, tree branches or on car the consol; but make sure the handle is securely attached. If you prefer a ‘loop’ handle, these are excellent for clipping onto the outside of your backpack with a karabiner. Some mugs come without handles. That’s fine too – we mugs are all-embracing; mugs sans handles have the advantage of slipping easily into pockets.

A non-slip base: This is important too, because for a travel mug to fit into your car’s cup holder – and with the extra thickness of double insulated walls – a travel mug can often be top-heavy. Add to this the fact that you might be placing your mug precariously on undulating surfaces and I’m sure you can see the reason for requiring a base which gives stability through being non-slip.

* * *

Am I still cranky? Slightly, though I do feel better having let off a bit of steam by ‘having my go’. On another note, we travel mugs are actually good for the environment. Lots of cafés are happy to make beverages in travel mugs, thus negating the stream of disposable cups into the world. There is nothing less gracious than a paper or foam cup floating empty and upturned in a waterway.

And when you next get up close and personal with your trusty travel mug, observe how nice we are to hold – we want to share the love. I mean it. Do you notice, generally, that our form is closely influenced by the flowing shapeliness of femininity and the pragmatic shininess of masculinity? Good marketing or the evolution of a sincere love affair between humans and travel mugs?

For now though, I’m Terry the slightly cranky Travel Mug, signing off. I hope my advice is of some assistance, and may I say to you and your travel mug whilst next out on your adventures: Happy sipping.

Little Sam’s Big Adventure

Blair Paterson — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 06:46:12 +0000

Little Sam’s Big Adventure

Story by Blair Paterson

To my fellow Editors

The Outdoor Type
C/o www.theoutdoortype.com.au

Dear Dave and Garry Esquires,

I am humbly writing to advise The Outdoor Type that we may have a fresh new recruit. Yesterday afternoon, while at home contemplating big adventures of my own, my boy Sam, at sixteen months of age, staked his claim to become an Outdoor Type in his own right.

I surmised this when he grabbed my thumb and led me to the front door. Sam had broad horizons in mind, for he was set to circumnavigate the grounds of our unit block. That’s right gentlemen: the grounds of our unit block.

He needed a support crew for the journey – he cannot reach the doorknob as yet – so I willingly obliged. We packed extremely light for our epic adventure – he with his key-ring rattle, me with my door key – and both of us, barefoot, were ready to embark on a wondrous journey.

Once the front door was opened, we got underway with a gnarly descent downstairs to the foyer landing. Things became quite treacherous for a spell as staircase monsters loomed between the balusters and railings. But Sam kept his nerve. He squeezed tight onto my index finger and gallantly strode forward.

Not long into the flatland leg of the trip, my services were called on again to open the unit block’s common entry door. Doors were already opening aplenty in young Sam’s life, figuratively speaking.

Sam walked outside and quickly assessed the situation. He squinted into the sunlight, sniffed the afternoon air and let the wind tease his blond curls. Then he abruptly turned left and bounded due southeast into the Realm of the Stepping Stones. With short legs he was unable to get directly from stone to stone. He showed great stoicism, however, by executing in-betweeny steps on the grass, striding exaggeratedly over nothing in particular with every step.

You will be happy to know a safe passage resulted. The grass piranhas were not feeding, nor were the sedge serpents nibbling.

The wildlife was quiet on a cool, clear autumn afternoon. So Sam sat down beside the compost bin for a spot of botanical study instead. Of interest to him were the pinecones lying willy-nilly in the grass. He gave me three such specimens – to take with us for further study, I assumed.

After a brief detour to investigate the clothesline area, the time was right for some horizontal traversing. Sam grabbed the t-handle of unit 8’s garage door to test for handholds. Once limbered up he poked his tongue out and set it over his bottom lip, opened his brown eyes wide and put on his ‘determination face’ ready for the task. Then he worked his way along the t-handles of all five garage doors at the rear of the block, shaking and rattling as hard as he could while making his way northeast.

Esteemed Outdoor Type colleagues, I have never seen such a display of urban bouldering as I was privy to witnessing yesterday from my brave little boy! I acted as spotter for the first two traverses – he went solo without harnessing up – but when I saw his poise on the t-handles I knew he was a little boy at the top of his game.

Well, Sam’s adventure was not done with yet. Another descent ensued in his mind. He cared little for urban legends associated with stepping on cracks in the pavement as he made his way northwest down the driveway at a great clip. There was, I might add, a precarious increase in the grade of the descent at the end of the driveway, which I diligently made myself available to assist him in negotiating before he careered out onto the street.

At the front corner of the unit block, near our garage, I sensed some indecision in Sam’s demeanor. He seemed torn between continuing northwest onto the street or bearing southwest along the front of the unit block. I intervened and suggested he save ‘the street’ for another adventure. He agreed, so we turned left.

The terrain along the front of the block undulates greatly between concrete driveways and brick pavers. Indeed, several stumbles and trips were had by both father and son. But there in the western sun was where Sam made a most significant discovery.

Sam discovered his own shadow.

First he waved his arms; then he touched the ground in front of him; then in an exuberant show of happiness he jumped up and down on the spot and squealed a happy squeal. And do you know what? His shadow compliantly followed his every move.

In a display of tribal fortitude Sam chose to share his discovery with the world by clanging the lids of the unit block’s letterboxes open and shut. As he repeatedly did so, a metallic din resonated throughout the neighbourhood for all and sundry to hear.

After the cacophony of such a landmark moment comes the quietness. Sam decided to set up base camp in the garbage bay. He chose a hideaway nook around the corner between two bins, behind the gate and under the shelter. That’s where I discovered him some seconds later, contemplating his thoughts with a smile stretching ear to ear.

Downtime is integral during any epic adventure. And the merry times we had in the garbage bay were special to us both. We settled in with a spot of peek-a-boo, then some tickle-tickles, and then we laughed and dreamt about old times. We reflected on the three sides of the unit block already circumnavigated and looked forward to the homeward journey.

Then a jumbo jet flew overhead and startled us both out of our peacefulness. “Time to break camp and press on” Sam motioned as a currawong flew low overhead and a cool breeze blew in. Unbeknownst to us in the full mirth of our adventure, clouds had quickly banked up in the sky like floating anvils.

Sam decided to make haste ahead of the impending bad weather, and in doing so fell on his bum near the lavender bush. He took a few seconds to assess the situation before rising to his feet, dusting off and making a final surge for home. He used the lure of a cuddle from Mum and a warm bath as his motivation. (And so did I for that matter.)

Sam completed the last leg of his circumnavigation of the unit block without event or mishap. He went upstairs and through the front door, screamed in salutation at the cat and smeared his leftover vegemite toast over the lounge. The situation was well and truly normal; in spite of this I sensed Sam had broadened his perception of the world.

And so, dear fellows of the Outdoor Type persuasion, I am happy to report that both adventurer and support crew are recovering well. I am also happy to report as a matter of curiosity that little Sam’s big adventure was completed yesterday from beginning to end in about the same time thereabouts as it will take you to read this letter, depending on how quickly you read of course.

As I write I feel sure more adventures are afoot for Sam. And for his support crew alike.

Signing off,
Yours truly,
Blair.

Taki Time – Wonderful Waterfalls of Shikoku, Japan

Guest Contributor — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 06:55:30 +0000

Taki Time – Wonderful Waterfalls of Shikoku, Japan

By Matthew Lindsay

View Gallery

The Chinese character kanji for waterfall means water next to dragon. This description presumably stems from Chinese legend that has it that should a carp ascend a cascade it will become a dragon. I’ve yet to encounter any dragons at the numerous waterfalls I’ve visited here on Shikoku but I can say that many of them are magical, mystical places.

Statues of Fudo-Myou a ferocious looking Buddhist deity can often be seen by cascades. Known as the ‘immovable one’, Fudo-Myou is regarded by the yamabushi mountain ascetics as their protector. As such they practice purification rituals under waterfalls, even during the height of winter! Waterfalls are also regarded as sacred places by Shinto, the animist religion native to Japan. Shinto shrines often are located by waterfalls, paying homage to the spirits that inhabit them.

I hope that these photos provide some insight into the beauty and power of nature that is manifested by waterfalls.

Matt Lindsay in Tokushima, Japan.

Swimming the Coast of Sydney

Guest Contributor — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 06:29:16 +0000

Swimming the Coast of Sydney

September 2010 - May 2011

Every man needs a hobby

Story by Murray Cox

Swimming skills are something I don’t possess in any great measure. I have the awkward choppy stroke of the self-taught – after having a friend video my freestyle, I swore I would never swim in public again. So I was surprised to find myself acting on a brainwave I had last year of joining all the dots between the season’s ocean swims and, in stages, swim along the Sydney coast between Barrenjoey Head and Botany Bay.

Here are a few excepts from my blog.

Swim 1. Barrenjoey 26 September

In 1969 I escaped on a plane a couple of months after high school to Asia and Europe for 5 years. Then back to a slow but sure tethering of jobs, study, self-employment, mortgage, marriage and kin. When I started a near ritual of swimming in my late 40s, it was after work, walking out to the flat rock shelf at North Bondi and feeling like I was diving off the continent. By the time I’d swum across the bay the dust and responsibilities of that day were washed away and I was hungry to hunt and gather something for a family dinner.

Swim 2. Avalon – Bilgola 10 October

Stepping from the Avalon sand into the water was like wading into an unmade bed, crumpled sheets dragging at my legs, foaming pillow over my head and a rip of half-remembered dreams pulling me out to sea. The elemental water can do that, split me somehow so I have to go swimming after my other part. By the time I was reunited I was looking down through the murky brine at a stone shelf and then up at the crag of Bilgola Headland.

This is why I wanted to swim along the coast; to have a moment face-to-face, with these rocky faces. From the water it was all forehead; eyes and nose submerged, furrowed brow, sunburn mottled, some follicles of vegetation on top – quite like my own in fact. The sister headland at North Avalon is a whole face, of an eroded-to-the bone Sphinx showing an obdurate visage to the sea, like those temple guardians trying to look more fierce than an approaching foe. This is definitely sculpture by the sea.

Swim 5. Bungan 24 October

These swims are part-bravado and part-meditation. By exploring the physical space of the watery coast along my hometown, I’m hoping to dissolve some old fears and solve something of the mystery, for me anyway, of what goes on between my brawn and brain.

One explanation that struck me simply divided this ‘human being’ into two components: the human and the being. The human, the homo part, is the very durable creature of millions of years of evolution through savannah and ice-ages, a body and nervous system superbly geared to fight and flight on many levels, and also craving stability and warm companionship. On the other hand, the being, the recently evolved sapiens brain-box is a word-working, risk-taking epic schemer. And the resulting combination is like putting a Ferrari in the hands of a teenager.

Swimming today felt like that. My water-logged body was doing all the hard work and my mind had just skipped away from the action, circling back for the odd note of encouragement or comment on the aesthetics of the colour grey before disappearing again. On the beach there wasn’t much of a reconciliation, most of me just wanted a hot shower, food and a lie-down.

         I’m using my arms for oars
         in the rowlocks of my shoulders
         to row this boat of flesh stretched
         over bony ribs and buoyant lungs.
         With this hull, skull and legs
         it’s a makeshift craft without keel or mast,
         a barely amphibious body,
         no gills, webbing, flippers or fin.
         Face down, turning,
         breathing from air to brine,
         splashing along the meniscus
         between sea and sky.

Swim 9. Avalon – Whale Beach. 13 November

Drawing a line along the coast might chart my course, but it can’t delineate the pulsing of the swell or the experience of crawling along that stretch of water. Maps are flat and prosaic. They can’t describe the emotional topography of travelling – we add that – so by opening a map or atlas we are also opening our potential for a journey.

The map we most commonly use is a street directory which just shows the dense web of bitumen and concrete we move on. It tells us very little about terrain. The road map “encourages us to imagine the land itself only as a context for motorised travel. It warps its readers away from the natural world”. (Robert Macfarlane, The Wild Places).

Swim 14. Bondi Roughwater 9 January

It’s a calm warm morning after a party night, and it’s my 60th birthday. Down on the sand the denizens walk, lounge and poke about like tropical fish, alternately flamboyant, brazen and timid – showing off and shy. The beach itself is a transitional zone, in geography and culture, a place where everyday inhibitions and conventions can be stripped off, even for a while; it’s a democratic playground for all ages with a minimum of social props, literally a sandpit. There is also a hint of carnival and circus – see the strongman, see the fat lady, there goes a boardrider threading along the wave like a high-wire act, ice-cream jugglers and clowns abound.

It is also possible to be quite private in that public space; sunglasses and a book work quite well, and so does swimming well out from the shore, which is where I find myself after the bustle of the beach and following those bubbling toes around the first buoy. I’m already a tad weary and the water is thick with my personal history of Bondi. It’s shaping to be a long swim.

Swim 15. Dee Why – Curl Curl 15 January

The Tasman this morning has nothing of Homer’s ‘wine-dark sea’ about it; in fact it looks distinctly non-alcoholic and unpoetic. Homer’s phrase comes from the Iliad where Achilles mourns the death of his lover Patroclus. I’ve always been sympathetic to the Trojans and thought of Achilles as a vain, homicidal maniac. Odysseus is more my kind of Greek; making large gift-horses and resisting sirens while tied to the mast, his Odyssey is full of cunning stunts. Today’s odyssey starts as I wade into this bleak and medicinal brew, initially swimming close to the rocks in the rip and then wide into the deep water.

The cray boat is a surprise, dropping pots down to 12 metres or so, a reminder of the bounty still below where unseen marine creatures go about their business with claws and carapaces, tentacles and pointy teeth. The sandstone cliffs have a plateau of real estate on top, homes on the edge. The cliffs themselves, subject to the ceaseless battering of the ocean, look merely resolute this morning – no sunlit glow, no stormy drama, just sand and quartz and clay in patinated muted tones. Looking into the depth of water is another matter. This is an opaque wet realm and diving down into it is like wriggling through the primal soup. I come up breathless and spooked and have to swim breaststroke, head up, counting strokes to regain my equilibrium.

Swim 23. Lurline Bay – Coogee 6 March

Finally I’m at the water’s edge. It took so long to walk I will have to take the mackerel route back. Looking north-east, the sea has a grey sheen, a metallic glare refracted from a myriad shimmering flakes on the ocean skin flickering with the wind. There is no one around, just me and the push-pull personalities that travel with me. Next moment I’m in the sea, was that a push or a pull? Breaststroke out of the bay, getting a feel for today’s water, it’s hard to get a grip with all this chopped up surface. Start rotating the arms for the crawl to calm the heart rate and pulse, I’m on my way and curious to be swimming in this new place. The light is a touch gloomy but the water is fairly clear, so here I am, glimpsing cliffs, underwater rocks and horizon as I roll my arms over and over. When I stop to take a few pictures, the same fishermen I saw on my walk an hour ago are still there, and around the headland the sand of Coogee is just visible.

Swim 24. North Head 12 March

We are kitted out with masks, snorkels and flippers; this is sight-seeing submarine-style, rather than freestyling across the surface with ‘up periscope’ on every breath. Without waves and backwash to deal with, we can hug the cliff edge. About 40 metres high on this NE side, the cliffs have a narrow shelf and then a 20-metre drop to the sea bottom. Visibility is very good, showing an abundance of small bait fish, the occasional groper and kingfish.

He spoke of his native island… Queequeg was a native of Rokovoko, an island far away to the West and South. It was not down on any map; true places never are. (Herman Melville, Moby Dick).

Swim 28. Warriewood 17 April

There is a question as to whether ocean swimmers are extroverts or introverts. For me, I’m an extrovert out of the water and an introvert in it. I like to say I’m the Greta Garbo of swimming – “I swim to be alone”. I love the immersion: in the briny; in my own thoughts – or thoughtlessness; in the rhythm of the crawl, sidestroke, backstroke; in the feeling of being in a wild place, relying solely on self-propulsion to survive. This ocean swimming is to venture into a wild place. You don’t need much – just a cossie and goggles and dive in. Don’t need skis, packs, ropes, caribeeners for the bush or mountains, no parachute, bike, boat and board for a thrill.

Then there are the rips and currents that can keep you swimming on the spot, backwards and sideways. Or the clear sandy bottom where a glimpse of your own shadow sends up that shiver of fear.

The devil that’s between us and the deep blue sea is our own imagining – and other people’s. How many times have I been asked, “Aren’t you afraid of sharks?” Of course I’m afraid of sharks! Being eaten alive is at the top of my list of scary things. But at the rate of one shark attack a year in the Sydney region, with the last fatality back in 1963, I’m happy to take my chances in the ocean.

Swim 30. Coogee-Bondi 27 April

The water is the colour of my polyester suit, a shiny pewter like ancient armour or shark skin. It’s warm in and I can see the sandy bottom and then some rocks. The surface is so bumpy and agitated I get a bit spooked so I take some deep breaths and dive down into the volume of the sea. It’s calm, the yellowtail are idling and the kelp is brooming back and forth. I dive again and start to relax. Soon I’m around the first point. Then I’m right next to the bombora off Gordon’s Bay. I’ve seen it as a reasonable board wave on the half tide and conditions similar to today. Ahead is the cut of Clovelly and I wave to Mimi who has driven around to the headland. Then the arc of Bronte and Tamarama appear as I crawl around Shark Point. This is the first time I’ve seen these beaches while swimming north and they appear as a matching pair of sandy coves. The swell isn’t bustling in there yet and they look benign.

I lay on my back for a while and get that castaway feeling. An odd bit of history floats into mind: I’m in Nelson Bay, named after the one-eyed admiral of Trafalgar, a resolute sailor, though I doubt if he could swim. He was also Duke of Bronte, so doubly honoured on this bit of coast.

Swim 33. South Head Roughwater 15 May

As we face into the harbour, a carnival of spinnaker colours billow toward us. I swim past the nudists of Lady Jane beach, our previous port-of-call after crossing the Heads a couple of months ago. At this point I have connected all the dots to swim the coast of Sydney, so I dive down and claim a handful of sand to mark the moment.

There is some hooting as a red-coloured tanker bulls its way into the harbour through the throng of yachts, boats and ferries. A few hundred metres off Watsons Bay beach the four of us assemble in the water to swim to the finish line at the sailing club wharf together. There’s applause, and we each have a small victory for our efforts. Last place still feels really good.

Terrifying and Pure: The Mosquito Coast

David Rutter — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 20:35:45 +0000

Terrifying and Pure: The Mosquito Coast

Story by David Rutter

On a rainy day, on a family holiday in my mid-teens I spotted the image of Harrison Ford, long-haired and bespectacled, on the cover of a novel I had not heard of, by an author whose surname I could not pronounce. The synopsis on the back cover convinced me to buy it - Honduras, the jungle, the Mosquito Coast - all words that brought exotic images to the mind of a boy from the bush on the edge of Sydney. The novel brought the steamy jungle to me. At the time I had no idea who Paul Theroux was, and now having read many books by the author, I can understand why I was captivated.

The book is based around the Fox family - Allie or “Father”, the enigmatic, intelligent and dictatorial leader of the family, “Mother”, and the children, Charlie (the narrator), Jerry, Alice and Clover. Fox, or “Father” as the family call him, takes the family from Massachusetts to Honduras seeking purity - a world untouched by the greedy, wasteful America, and uncorrupted by modern inventions.

The book is full of observations of the wastefulness, greed, and complacency of modern society - of people who accept mediocrity in the products they buy and use, and the addiction to products that seemingly make their lives easier. The result is a lazy and obese society that simply cannot be saved: one that Allie Fox is convinced will collapse into civil war at any moment. Allie is sure he knows the answers to America’s problems, and is similarly convinced he can create the perfect society in a place which has not yet been corrupted. It is interesting to look back on a book written almost thirty years ago and see the current trends towards organic foods, “slow-food”, and a resurgence in the popularity of locally manufactured products.

The story, though, wasn’t what captivated me, although it played its part. It was the jungle, an environment so far removed from the dry bush of north-western Sydney. Theroux paints vivid and brutally honest images of the jungle - a place with both life and sickness and death in equal amounts. A place both pure and corrupt. It was obvious that the writer had been there, and not imagined what it was like from afar. The landscape: the jungle, the villages, the rivers, the coast - all seemed both familiar and exotic at once. For a boy who had seen only temperate eucalyptus forests and coastal beaches, a book set in a tropical rainforest was an otherworldly escape.

The Mosquito Coast is a journey which takes the reader from temperate Massachusetts, with open farmland, fields of asparagus, poolrooms, tractors and scarecrows to the south and to the sea. In the beginning, with Allie Fox’s discontentment, frustration and disgust, the mood is stifled yet expectant, but once the Fox family is on its way, especially when leaving US shores, the sense of freedom and adventure begins to dominate. The family leave with almost nothing (just as Allie likes it), and are ready to begin anew. We are then plunged into a new and exciting world - a wild world where life seems to be free. The journey then goes up a river of the mosquito coast - a river which seems to threaten to punch a hole into the boat at any moment. We are in the jungle - where life can seem more difficult, but also free. Allie no longer has anyone to answer to, the children need only work hard. Allie descends into delusional and obsessive behaviour - convincing himself (and trying to convince his family) that the United States has been destroyed. On the Mosquito Coast, he is a charismatic white man, going back would be an admission of failure on many levels, and something he will not stomach. He forces the family into increasingly dangerous situations. In the end, the family is almost hostage to him as he desperately tries to keep them with him as he tries to survive. The Mosquito Coast becomes a prison for them.

As their life in the jungle reaches the highs and lows, we then learn about what it means to live downriver at a lagoon, and what it means to live upriver. Allie’s realisation that “dead things float downriver” is actually at odds with the common notion that to live near the sea in the tropics is (for many people) to live in paradise.

In Allie’s world, Mother Nature provides all the answers to our needs. Allie maligns Christians for seeking answers in the bible - he sees all the answers he needs in the designs of Mother Nature. By immersing his family in it they learn all the skills needed to live a more pure existence. Mother Nature is not a benevolent being bestowing any level of comfort or protection upon the Fox family. They experience nature with all the discomfort, danger, and beauty that such an environment brings. And with it, the book serves what is for me is a great lesson: that nature is beautiful, terrifying, honest, and pure.

Ticks and People in the Australian Bush

Blair Paterson — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 05:04:58 +0000

Ticks and People in the Australian Bush

Story by Blair Paterson

The mere mention of ticks is a daunting and off-putting subject for many bushwalkers, campers and people undertaking activities in the Australian bush. There is no denying ticks are annoying pests but we need not be discouraged. If we understand the risks about how to reduce and manage tick encounters and treat bites correctly when they occur our bush experiences will be less compromised.

The purpose of this article is to produce a comprehensive factsheet about ticks to equip Outdoor Types who have or may become exposed to ticks whilst on their adventures. Topics addressed include ticks’ complex lifecycle and range, their affect on humans, common misnomers and FAQs, management and prevention, and discussion about correct removal of embedded ticks.

Tick lifecycle and habitat

Ticks are bloodsucking external parasites of the order Aracina, which also contain mites. There are approximately 75 species endemic to Australia; many more have been introduced since colonisation. Ticks are divided into two families: hard ticks (Family oxodidae) and soft ticks (Family argasidae) [1].

The most important tick species in regards to public health in New South Wales is the Paralysis tick (Ixodes holocyclus) [2] (Figure 1). The Paralysis tick, a hard tick, is found along the eastern coastal strip of Australia and about 30 kilometres inland. This region is densely populated by humans too, where encounters are commonplace.

Paralysis tick habitat comprises of moist, humid, bushy areas such as wet sclerophyll forests and temperate rainforests [3].

The lifecycle of a tick involves four stages and three feeds of blood (Figure 2):

Female adults lay up to 3,000 eggs in leaf litter on forest floors. The six-legged larvae hatch after 40-60 days requiring their first bloodmeal to moult into eight-legged nymphs. Very few ticks survive beyond the larval stage, dying of desiccation while waiting for this meal [4]. Ticks require a second bloodmeal to moult from nymphs into adults. After a third and final bloodmeal they mate, lay eggs and die.

Female ticks feed from hosts for each of their three stages while males only feed for the first two, requiring a host during their adult stage to seek an attached female in order to mate [5].

In search for a host – usually a native animal such as a bandicoot, but also humans – ticks display behaviour known as ‘questing’, where they climb up vegetation such as a blade of grass or a fern frond and extend their front legs in wait to latch onto a passing animal.

A Tick’s lifecycle takes about a year, with Paralysis tick encounters prevalent as larvae through autumn, as nymphs through winter and as adults through spring and summer.

Tick / human contact

Paralysis ticks secrete a neurotoxin in their saliva which is associated with progressive and sometimes fatal paralysis, particularly for pets [6]. Symptoms of paralysis include dizziness, unsteady gait, nausea, headache, rashes, weak limbs, fever, and tenderness of lymph nodes. Symptoms may continue once the engorged tick is removed.

The advent of modern antitoxins has prevented fatalities in recent times, yet hospitals still admit several paralysis casualties each year, particularly of young children [3]. Bites are rarely fatal; 20 tick fatalities were recorded in NSW last century [7].

Other tick-related diseases such as Tick typhus and Lyme disease are rare in Australia. Allergic reactions are more common, however, with symptoms being local irritations, where itchy, inflamed or swollen skin may persist for up to ten days.

In late summer and early autumn, bites or irritations may appear on the skin without sight of a tick. This could be a larval tick which is relatively small, transparent and has likely been unknowingly scratched off by the host. The irritation is often known as ‘scrub-itch’ [4].

Ticks are known to crawl over a prospective host for up to two hours before attaching. Contrary to popular belief they do not drop onto hosts from overhanging branches. Instead they climb to quest on vegetation no higher than about 50cm, then onto a host and upwards to find a suitable place to attach.

The most common yet not exclusive places where ticks are found attached to humans are the head, neck, behind the ears and in hairy areas. Along with their elongated rod-like mouth structure (hypostome, Figure 3) which plunges into the skin, some species also use saliva to bond the palps to the skin of their host [1].

Tick prevention and management

The Paralysis tick season is most prevalent over spring and summer when adults are questing for hosts. As a poisonous animal they should be considered an environmental factor by those assessing hazards before entering infested areas [8]. Some suggested risk management measures are as follows:

Where possible avoid venturing into tick infested areas;
Wear light-coloured clothes – ticks are easily seen and brushed off before they attach; for extra protection wear long pants with legs tucked into socks, and shirts with long sleeves;
Apply a tropical grade insect repellent to clothes – products containing pyrethrum, picaridin or DEET are effective; and
Always carry a well-equipped first aid kit containing fine-tipped tweezers and disinfectants.

Ultimately the impetus remains with the person exposing themselves to any environmental factors when venturing into the bush to be aware of the relevant risks and prepare appropriately [9]. Management of ticks is no exception to this impetus.

Tick removal

Some oft spruiked methods of tick removal include:

Smother the tick and site in Vaseline and apply a band aid to suffocate the tick out;
Tie a granny knot in a length of cotton or fishing line, fasten the loop around the tick
and ‘lasso’ it out;
Twist anti-clockwise with tweezers and ‘screw’ the tick out;
Flip the tick upside down and fold it backwards out of the skin;
Roll the tick’s body anticlockwise over the skin around its own mouthparts until the tick detaches;
Apply methylated spirits to kill the tick before removal;
Use a hot match to kill the tick before removal;
Thumb and forefinger pincer removal technique, and
Use a dedicated tick removal tool (of which there are many on the market).

Other methods undoubtedly exist which are not noted above.

The contemporary method for tick removal as per the St John Ambulance Australia First Aid Manual ([10], p.347) is as follows:

Administer standard first aid management (DRABCD).
Remove tick using fine-tipped forceps or equivalent, press skin down around tick’s embedded mouth part.
Grip the mouth firmly, gently lift to detach the tick – do not squeeze with fingers or forceps during removal.
If severe allergic reaction: call 000 for an ambulance.

Box 1: People with known tick allergies
If a person carries medication for an allergic reaction or anaphylaxis use immediately; if tick allergies are known, the person should always avoid exposure to ticks never enter potential infested areas [3].

The most important point to consider, whatever the method of tick removal, is to avoid squeezing the tick’s abdomen. This will reduce the likelihood of the tick injecting more toxins into its host prior to removal. Killing a tick before removal can also cause toxins to be injected.

While some care is required to successfully remove a tick, hard ticks (Family oxodidae) are generally robust – the motion for removal should be firm and consistent, like being engaged in a tug-o-war with the tick. The skin will pull against the attempted removal as if plucking a hair follicle but the tick will eventually release in its entirety (Figure 4).

FAQs

Do ticks drop off once they’ve fed or do they remain attached until they die?

Ticks will drop off their host once fully engorged with blood. Nymphs drop off after 4-6 days. Adult females remain attached for 10 days where their body size once engorged expands 200 times to about the size of a small grape (1cm) [3]. Unlike fleas which remain on one host throughout, ticks migrate from one host to another during their lifecycle.

Do ticks keep burrowing once attached?

A popular misnomer exists about removing the tick’s head, that if the head shears off from the body during removal it will continue burrowing under the skin. Ticks do not have heads. Concern is actually regarding the removal of the tick’s elongated mouthparts.

While the hypostome has several rows of barbs angled backwards along its protrusion like serrations along a saw blade, any matter which remains will not continue to burrow if still embedded. The site may become infected, however, without proper treatment if any mouthparts are left in the skin.

What should I do with the tick once removed?

If the casualty shows signs of severe reaction, the tick should be kept for identification. If there is no reaction destroy the tick. If the tick is an engorged adult female (Figure 5), children often enjoy seeing its blood-filled body explode underfoot.

Concluding message

Ticks and venomous animals are very real, particularly in Australia. Encounters with ticks have conjured up stories: of embedding in sensitive areas of our bodies, of harrowing trips to the hospital, of panic and hysteria ad nausea. Associated words, too, such as ‘bloodsucking’, ‘bloodmeal’ and ‘engorgement’ are emotively charged.

Arguably, the main issue stems from not being aware of the facts about how to manage these bothersome little pests. With knowledge and experience comes understanding; with understanding comes the confidence to confront our fears.

It is hoped the content of this article is helpful in illuminating some truths for Outdoor Types about ticks in the Australian bush. Nobody wants to be bitten by ticks, but at the same time we need not be put off from our adventures because of them.

Box 2: Further information
Health NSW advises contacting your doctor, local Public Health Unit or Community Centre. Full details of NSW Public Health Units can be viewed at: www.health.nsw.gov.au/publichealth/infectious/phus.asp.

References

1.Vredevoe, L., Background Information on the Biology of Ticks. University of California, Davis.
(Last update: 28 October, 1997). Available: http://entomology.ucdavis.edu/faculty/rbkimsey/tickbio.html [2010,
December 21].

2.NSW Health. Ticks Factsheet NSW. (Last update: 1 May 2002). Available: http://www.health.nsw.gov.au/factsheets/general/ticks_factsheet.html [2010, December 21].

3.Department of Medical Entomology. Ticks. University of Sydney. (Last update: 7 November
2003). Available: http://medent.usyd.edu.au/fact/ticks.htm [2010, December 21].

4.Shaw, M., (2000). The Australian Paralysis Tick. Department of Zoology & Entomology, University of Queensland. (Last update: 5 January 2000). Available: http://www.jeffress.net/ffnff/mshaw_ticks.htm [2010,
December 21].

5.The Living Australia, (eds.), (1994). Dangerous Australians: The complete guide to Australia’s most deadly creatures. Harper Collins, Sydney.

6.Lowchens Australia. Ticks, Fleas, Flies, Spiders and other Gremlins (2009). Available: http://www.lowchensaustralia.com/pests/bites.htm [2010, December 21].

7.Wilson, B., (1992). First Aid in the Bush: An authoritative companion when far from medical help. Wilderness Publications. Blackburn Australia.

8.Priest, S. and Gass, M. A., (2005). Effective Leadership in Adventure Programming (Second edition). Human Kinetics. USA.

9.Reynolds, V., Chapman, M., Lingard, R., Manders, S. and Trenchard-Smith, J., (eds.) (2000).
Bushwalking and Ski Touring Leadership: Outdoor Recreation leadership in Australia.
Bushwalking and Mountaincraft Training Advisory Board Inc., Victoria.

10.St John Ambulance Australia, (2006), Australian First Aid Manual. St John Ambulance Australia, Canberra ACT.

Basquing Lark

Guest Contributor — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 21:08:49 +0000

Basquing Lark

Story by Jon Edwards

When I sit on the bus thinking about it all I invariably find myself yearning for the next opportunity to be ‘out there’, in the uneven world, in the rough places with no handrails and steep drops, heart pumping, lungs bursting and eyes straining to grasp the beauty of it all. Then there’s the lycra….

It’s so wet in The Basque Country the fish wear anoraks. An ancient land straddling the border of France and Spain collecting Atlantic storms, its rugged hills and deep valleys are an outdoor type’s paradise - if it would just stop raining. Indeed, my recent discovery of the hitherto obscure pleasure of hurtling downhill, clinging to handlebars whilst wearing a potty on my head can be directly linked to the lure of this damp but undulating beauty, its fresh clean air and heart swelling views. I double dare you to go there and not find yourself one morning inexplicably walking up a steep hill, gaining a new perspective with each step, and wondering what happened to that nasty hangover…well that’s what happened to me. Sort of.

I had been in the Basque Country for around 4 months when all this happened. I’d been merrily fulfilling a lifelong dream of living and working in a foreign culture, learning a new language and failing to chat up girls with a whole new set of verbs, when I felt there was probably more to life that romantic ineptitude and Chorizo. San Sebastian was where I stayed, a beautiful coastal town with gorgeous beaches and a lively social scene of tourists, students and surfers. The area is still alive with political and cultural struggle of the Basque people against the dominant Spanish culture. Political rallies regularly reclaim the streets of the the old town from hordes of tourists and make a brutish police presence are common site – along with the Chorizo. All a bit much really, so I began to look inland.

It started when I bought myself a mountain bike. This event was the culmination of a lengthy process of due diligence, throughout which the highest standards of fiscal rectitude, and consumer prudence were adhered to - a) Pub conversation, b) Internet search c) ‘Ooh! That looks pretty!’ d) CLICK.

One week later a large brown cardboard box arrived carrying my passport to a new life of vertiginous tongue swallowing adventure and all I needed was an Allen Key…

Early tool related frustrations were soon forgotten when the following weekend I joined three colleagues Bob, Karl, and James, on my first Basque biking expedition. We took the local train inland and after only 15 minutes the town was far behind us as the first of the mountains, which crowd around San Sebastian (like the rest of the tourists eager to get to the beach), shouldered past us – and soon enough we were surrounded. The only thing to do was climb! - actually there was time for a lovely latte and biscuity thing…. but THEN we climbed!

It’s wet in the Basque Country - I think I’ve covered that before - and with wetness comes mud, and mud makes cycling uphill …well lets just say it’s hard. If you doubt that, get one hamster, put it in its wheel, pour two parts runny clay and one part cow pat over the rungs and watch it struggle on, paying close attention to its poor little hamster expression…not too happy I think we all agree. As my recently shiny new bike toiled up the muddy hill my face began to twitch and was soon transformed into an set of features now known as ‘the unhappy hamster.’

The hill went on, and on. Then in a turn of events that shocked no one, it went on some more. I was fast running out of credible reasons to stop (sticky gears, call of nature, stone in shoe) and was in danger of regurgitating my lovely biscuity thing all over my new shorts. Breathing raggedly I stuck to the wheel of Bob ‘King of the Mountains’ Summers (who was clearly doing his best to refrain from whistling a happy tune as he glided upward) and hoped to avoid disgrace. Thankfully just as I could go on no further, we went on no further.

Going up seems so unpleasant – until you start to go down.

James “I am rubbish at directions – no honestly. Follow me!”, our leader for the day, gave myself and fellow greenhorn Karl some pertinent advice before the descent: “Just be careful of your brakes. The last bloke I brought up here broke his arm. Follow meeeee!” …and he was off. There was nothing for it but to be off too.

This must be the steep bit I thought, before getting to the steep bit. I felt that the gradient, uneven terrain and my lack of an exoskeleton warranted at least a cursory investigation of the breaking options. Despite what James had said I pulled on a lever and found that rolling head long down a mountain was not quite as scary as SKIDDING headlong down one so I released the brake and held on tight.

If I told you I had not - several times during that first descent - wished I was elsewhere doing cool, safe, and completely non-life-threatening elsewhere stuff I would be telling a half truth. In fact I tried to wish this repeatedly but only got as far as “I wi..” before all brain power was again diverted to avoid bone-crunching disaster. Then I fell.

Nothing heroic, no ‘airtime’, no cartwheeling just mud and pain. I slipped in a particularly aggressive swathe of muddiness, lost the front end and gave my ankle (already twisted from soccer heroics) a nasty bang. I didn’t cry but it did make my leg jiggle uncontrollably which could have been mistaken by the casual observer as fear. I knew better of course it was pain – oh, and fear.

It was at this point that I started to enjoy myself. The gradient eased and the mud retreated and I swept down the mountain with increasing confidence. The high I felt was beautiful. There’s nothing quite like almost killing yourself to really make your afternoon. My senses primed by adrenaline took in everything with joyous clarity, the freshness on the mountain air, the smell of the woods, the buzz of knobled tires over the rocky track. All this mixed with the sense of achievement I had from surviving my first decent made for an addictive cocktail. All too soon we were back on tarmac and moments later we plonked our mud splattered bodies in the local plaza for a well earned beer. I was already thinking of the next trip.

Despite the fear, or perhaps because of it (no, I just checked it was definitely despite it), I went on a dozen or so more mountain biking excursions around the Basque Country. Each trip gave me more confidence, more speed in the downhill sections, more guts to go over the seemingly impossible drops, and more puff to get up the long climbs. If a more fun way to enjoy a hilly country has been invented I feel sure it must be illegal (but if you know what it is you’ll tell me anyway, right..?).