Kokoda - Day 3

Isurava to Templetons Crossing (via Oro Creek)

Distance: 26.6 km

Walking time: 5 hours 47 mins

Elevation profile:

One of the longest days of the trek started with Peta doing the rounds with her boom box at 5 am. We needed the early start for two reasons.

Firstly, we had a dawn service to attend. Secondly, given the distance we had to cover that day, if there was any hope that we'd arrive at camp before dark, an early start was needed.

By day's end, any remaining false illusions we had about the possible ease of the task facing us over the entirety of this trek were firmly banished.

Given the military significance of Isurava, it was only fitting that we honoured those who gave their lives at this location and everywhere else on the trail with a dawn memorial service.

As a group, we made our way from the camp down to the memorial. The long chain of head torches in the morning dark was the only sign of human movement. Everyone being respectful of the sombre nature of this early morning ritual. The entire group of porters, cooks, guides, and carriers also made their way to join us.

Kicking off the service, the porters and carriers sang a welcome-to-PNG song. The harmony was beyond description. They then followed with the national anthem of PNG. I can't speak for the rest of the group, but for me it was extremely spiritual, and the poignancy of where I was—and the reasons I had decided to do this trek—was tear-inducing.

Peta then read a series of short military stories of battles fought and lives lost, interspersed with readings from several members of the group who had volunteered to read either odes or short stories.

The service finished with the Last Post. Needless to say, the group returned to camp as quietly as we had arrived. Everyone seemed now fully invested in the relevance of the trail in Australia's military history.

COURAGE - ENDURANCE - MATESHIP - SACRIFICE . Four core values of the men who fought and gave their lives on Kokoda

Dammo reading a short story pertinent to the military campaign with emotion and clarity. Not too many dry eyes during this reading or service.

Looking back down at the memorial as we headed back to camp for breakfast and to ready ourselves for the slaughterfest that was about to follow.

The previous night had been a wet-fest. 6-7 hours of heavy downpour that didn't leave much inside the tent dry. I had left my bowl and cup outside the tent and both were 1/3 full of water when I reached for them to take to breakfast.

Post breakfast and off we set, initially making our way across the heli-pad that is located in Isurava. The earth sodden with moisture and the track well saturated in readiness for 14 trekkers to slip and slide their way along it.

Speaking of helipads and helicopters, one of the first questions that many ask is: what are the routes for evacuation should an injury be so severe that someone cannot continue? The answer is pretty simple, with three options.

Either walk or be carried back to Kokoda and get a plane. Walk or be carried to Sogeri and get carted to Port Moresby. Or—option three—be helicoptered out of the trail at any point where there is enough clearing for a helicopter to land.

Option three is definitely the most expensive. We had been warned to ensure we had at least USD $5,000 available on our credit cards should a helicopter be required. That was the starting point for evacuation off the track: no pay, no fly. The same applied to the International Hospital in Port Moresby, which would be your first port of call in an emergency. Their stance was pretty clear: you pay them, and then whatever happens between the trekker and their insurance company has nothing to do with them.

The rain of the previous night had turned the track into a virtual quagmire. Going uphill was made difficult because of the slippery nature of the terrain. Going downhill required a heightened level of concentration because of the potential to slip or slide at any moment. The number of falls quickly grew throughout the morning as trekkers’ boots became clogged with mud and whatever tread they had was rendered useless.

As was to be the norm throughout the trek, Peta would stop mid-track and recount a battle or significant moment that occurred at that point where we had stopped. I am all for history lessons if it means a chance to catch my breath. Sitting in a classroom learning about some medieval battle from the 1400s—not so much.

(Clockwise from Peta: Jenna, Marty, Glen, Danette, Lisa, Chris, Anne, Dammo (above Anne), Grant, Lynda, Mo, Kristy, Gareth (above Kristy). Little did we realise at the time, it was to be one of the last occasions where the entire group was able to sit as one on track for these special moments.)

The story above and the significance of the track at this point was made clear when Peta led us just off track to a flat rock. Used by Australian surgeons to tend to the wounded.

Whether you were going up or down, the odds of slipping or falling were pretty much the same. The track here relatively navigable. Using poles was a must. Either to take pressure off the knees when descending or help stabilise you or to use as leverage when climbing.

Often you spend soo much time focusing on either the up or the down that scenery would pass you by. On the rare occasion I looked up I was never disappointed at the views afforded us at various points of the trek. What the picture doesn't convey is the aroma of the jungle, the thickness of the air, the humidity, the moisture and and the sounds of birdlife permeating the air.

The porters footwear was varied. Some wore trainers (usually so worn that they no longer had tread) some wore flip flops, some were fortunate to have boots, and quite a few just went barefoot. 14 trekkers all had high end boots and yet were slipping and falling on a regular basis. Not once in all 8 days did I see a porter or any other member of the trekking company fall Regardless of what, if any, footwear they were wearing. A true testament to their balance, co-ordination, and being at one with their environment. Quite staggering to witness to be fair.

Going down was as fraught with as much danger as possibly imagined and it go worse than this. Much worse.

Tea break destination on Day 3 . Alola Village. Just another impossibly remote village nestled in the Owen Stanley Range enveloped in cloud

Whilst we westerners with all our trekking gear struggled to maintain our balance on track the locals took everything in their stride.

Am betting he'd have a few stories to tell of a life hard lived.

What struck me early on in the trek, and was reinforced at almost every village, was just how neat and tidy every community was. There seemed to be a very high level of civic pride. My mother, who has done a lot of work in this area, explained it this way: most, if not all, of these villages would have been heavily influenced by the virtues and values of the Seventh-day Adventist missionaries who made it their objective to bring the locals in this area (and throughout PNG) into the bosom of their church and beliefs.

Lisa's children had written inspirational messages onto most of the packages of track snacks she had brought with her on the trek. They were a constant source of entertainment and a clear insight into the logical thinking of youth.

The trekking company advised us to wear gaiters. For what purpose, other than to collect mud, I am not sure. Marty, he of ridiculously clean-boot fame, did not wear gaiters. Going forward, I am pretty sure I'd dispense with them too.

As for the scrubbing brush we were recommended to bring to clean our boots each evening, I would dispense with that as well. I had used the scrubbing brush on the first night, but within three minutes of walking the next morning, my boots were caked with mud again. So I'm not really sure of the practicality of the brush. All 90 grams of it, too.

Dammo looking full of energy and a picture of robust strength. Ridiculously so.

Grant of Go-Kart fame and his wife Lisa who I dubbed the 'Pocket Rocket' after her immesurable determination and perserverance in the most trying of circumstances. Although somewhat vertically challenged she never shied away from tackling the steepest steps with an admirable level of energy. Along the flat I was hard pressed to keep pace.

Danette hails from Sacramento in California and was quick to point out that California doesn't really represent the USA.

Would seem she has an insatiable appetite for arduous treks having completed some of the more challenging walks throughout the world. Those knees took a beating by trek end, and the ankle that she had fused a few years ago wasn't probably too happy about being asked to cope with Kokoda.

A stark reminder of what went down on the Kokoda Trail. An 84 year old relic from one of the countless battles fought along the track we now trekked.

Anne and Lyndah. The latter had done her medial ligament on day 2 and on day 3 was still managing to smile her way through the ordeal of the pain she was feeling. Drug fuelled though it (the smile) may have been. I had availed her of some Italian 400mg ibuprofen and there was even an offer of Tramadol from another member of the group. Probably also the first Hawthorn Hawks fan I have met I actually liked. Even if she did mistake me being South African on Day 1.

Anne was one of the few to make it through the entire trek seemingly unscathed. Once her breathing had acclimatised to the heavy humidity on day 1 hers was a consistent demeanour of admirable positivity and resolve. She even seemed to genuinely laugh at some of the poor jokes Gareth and I sometimes told.

Kristy. Those knees were to take a beating too with her patella's causing her all manner of grief. Despite this, her stoicism was off the charts as was her endearing personality.

Whilst we Westerners struggled to maintain any sort of grip in the mud, the locals often resorted to going barefoot. Simply remarkable, especially given the loads they were carrying. They truly epitomised the phrase "being in their element".

It wasn't all up and down steep muddy slopes. Occasionally the trail threw other obstacles at us. Jenna displaying an enviable flexibility I haven't seen since my 20's . Her husband, Dammo, immediately behind her and already being guided by his porter to a more practical approach of getting past the fallen tree.

Oro Creek. Lunch stop on what was already a VERY long day. They have called this crossing ''The miniature Sydney Harbour Bridge''. Certainly a great example of local craftsmen availing themselves of whatever they could source locally to build a pretty impressive structure.

In the foreground above is Stencil / Stansol . He is known as the FSM (Front Spade Man). Ostensibly he is the pace setter. No one was allowed to walk ahead of him at any point. He reputedly carried a spade with him should the need arise to either carve a step going up a slope or down it. We often conversed in Tok Piksin (the local language) and over the 8 days I learnt much about his life and family. He had an endearing smile and a gentle manner and spoke better English than he let on. This was his 176th crossing of the trail. At one point he was encouraged by the front group of trekkers to walk at his natural pace. By all reports, they (the quickest of our group) were hard pressed to keep up. ''It was though he put the after burners on '' said Dammo once he had recovered his breath.

It wasn't just the trekkers who took every opportunity catch some sleep or rest whenever we stopped for meals or talks. Carrying a heavy load along the Kokoda takes it toll on everyone. A flat rock as good as any to stretch out and catch some zzzz's

Distinctive local flora

Just another shot of the impossibly thick jungle. A porter waiting for his trekker to arrive in order to guide them safely through the next section of the trail.

Local flora II

The last bridge crossing of day 3 before we hit camp. By this stage, at close to 6pm, under the jungle canopy it was not surprisingly gloomy and dark. Crossing a wet muddy rickety bridge with no handrail in the semi darkness after 12 hours on track. Just what the Trekking Doctor ordered.

Crossing the bridge above presented an interesting situation. Unseen in the photo, Lisa (aka the Pocket Rocket) had already crossed the bridge, with her porter ensuring her safety by hanging onto her backpack from behind lest she should slip. As soon as they had crossed, Lisa, as was her form, hastily moved along the track and out of sight.

Without a porter, I was left to cross the bridge on my own. At the time, and still now, I believed that every porter has a duty of care to all trekkers, not just those they are being paid to carry packs for. There were countless examples along the trail where I either spent large stretches of time walking on my own (which was no issue) or was crossing bridges unaided.

My suggestion in my feedback to the company was that perhaps there ought to be another level of porter service. Those carrying tents, cooking gear, and other non-customer equipment could perhaps be appointed to a trekker who has paid for them to accompany them. It wasn't a massive issue for me because I have done a lot of trekking in my time, but it did make me wonder how those with less experience, who had decided to carry their own kit, would fare.

I was moments away from donning my head torch to cross the bridge above when the track suddenly gave way to an open expanse of light-filled grass and the welcoming sight of Camp 3. Welcome to Templeton's Crossing.

There was a massive river to the right of this picture, and it didn't take those of us who had made it into camp before dark too long to avail ourselves of it to wash and refill our bottles.

On this day, the group had been strung out over some distance, and there were six or seven who arrived in the pitch black. Among them was Lynda, who was now clearly struggling with her knee. I sauntered over to offer some assistance and winced as I saw the pain on Lynda's face while her husband, Chris, took off her boots. It was pain personified at every level. After filling their water bottles and CamelBaks for them, I beat a hasty retreat to let them digest the day they had just experienced. Everyone in the group was feeling Lynda's pain, and although we were only into Day 3, it was amazing to see the camaraderie and team spirit that the group had already formed.

Complete strangers just four days earlier, we were now all heavily invested in each other's success and completion of the trail. It was pretty moving to witness and beautiful to be a part of.