Kokoda - Day 6

Agulogo to Ofi Creek

Distance: 17.28 km

Walking time: 9 hours 54 mins

Elevation:

It was a an up and down sort of day. Excuse the pun. Couldn't help myself looking at that elevation profile.

Even the most no-fuss husband knows that happy wife equals happy life. Dammo once again attending to Jenna's every need. Strapping her ankles first thing in the morning pre-trek. Ankle taping, knee braces and Italian 400mg iburpofen. The list was lengthening as the trek did

The day started with an early river crossing. Chris striding purposefully through the river . These river crossings were a welcome relief and an opportunity to free the feet from the confines of the boots and give them a good rinsing. Some of the rivers had a quick current to them and I was somewhat surprised that given the unstable footing below waters surface not one of us fell at any point during these crossings

If you were going to design a man for the elements we found ourselves in then you'd probably end up with a mould not far from the human version known as Marty. Hailing from Western Sydney he came to the trek match fit as a consequence of his job. Carting large boxes up and down steps all day every day lends itself to developing impressive leg strength. Marty was also the only one of us who had a very real connection to the trail. His grandfather had fought in the campaign and consequently Marty was heavily invested in every aspect of the military history at each point of the trail. None moreso than the location of where his grandfather actually met the Japanese. Both interesting and interested he had an inquisitive mind and conversation was easy flowing and enjoyable. His ability to keep his boots clean regardless of the state of the track was something you wouldn't think possible unless you were there to witness it every day. He wasn't adverse to creating his own way down any section of the trail too and could often be seeing or heard creating his own ''Marty-track". When you heard him approaching from behind , your best option was to stand aside and look on in wonderment at his dexterity and balance as trekked passed you at speed and down the trail at an enviable pace.

On this day, every skerrick of respect (which was a lot to begin with) that I had for Gareth was amplified tenfold as the day unfolded. Mid-afternoon, while descending a steep, slippery, tree-root-covered section of the trail, Gareth slipped and, in his own words, "found my leg stretched at an angle it hadn't seen since I was three days old." As it happened, several of us heard a distinctive snap. Not the sort of snap you ever want to hear. Initially, I thought he'd fallen onto a branch and snapped that, but turning back up the hill, it was clear the sound had come from something either bony or muscular. It turned out to be the latter. Writhing in pain and clutching his upper leg and thigh, it quickly became obvious he had done something serious to his hamstring. I went to him and, with the help of his porter, gingerly helped him into an upright seated position where he sought to regain his breath and process what had just happened. As his breathing returned to relative normality, I asked him what he wanted to do. His response was about as Gareth-like as I could ever have imagined:

"Well, not a shitload I can do but walk out of here. Not like I can hail a taxi or anything."

And so he raised himself and took what was a very obvious painful first step. Followed by a second, then a third. The grimace on his face with each step belied the false image of bravery he was trying to project.

About 35 steps later, and with myself and Peta just ahead of him, he slipped again. Not falling, but slipping enough to stretch an already stretched hamstring. His fury was totally understandable and the expletives warranted when he said:

"Fuck these boots and fuck the guy that sold them to me. When I get back to Sydney, I am fucking walking into that fucking shop and I am going to kick that fucker to fucking fuck and back..."

There was then a momentary lapse in his venting before he added:

"...mmm, I guess I'll have to wait until my leg is mended before I do all that."

The ability to see humour in a moment of darkness has always set him apart from others I know. For some reason, his logical thinking in the midst of such pain brought me to tears with laughter as it broke the sombre nature of the situation we had witnessed only moments earlier. It was the hardest I laughed on the trek. Peta, too, was finding it difficult to contain her mirth.

Two hundred metres further down the slope, where the trail flattened out, Gareth tapped me on the shoulder.

"Those 400 mg ibuprofen. You got any more?"

Dispensing two, I suggested he take three. The look on his face suggested he wanted the whole sleeve of twelve.

My good friend Gareth. His attire was about as close as he was ever able to get to replicating Marty in trekking persona

Stansol and Marty. Probably ruminating about the struggles of the rest of the group with a level of curiosity as to how so many of us could find something like this trail as hard as we were. I suspect both of them would be equally good at each others job

River crossing two thousand four hundred and ninety five. Only a slight exaggeration. The trail clear and obvious. Or not.

The connection with the locals was always very real

(photo courtesy of Peta.B)

Bridge crossing seven thousand six hundred and two. Given the expression on his face I'd pay good money to hear what Gareth is thinking. Probably ''When are those dodgy Italian ibuprofen going to kick in ''

In the middle of absolutely no where we came across a very small open sided hut with a roof. Attached to a post outside it were the latest betting odds for both Australian horse racing and Rugby League. Not sure the Seventh Day Adventists would be approving and a sad sign of the encroachment of Western vices into the remote communities

It wasn't all steep slopes up and down in thick jungles. Only 95% of it. The other 5% was a mix of open fields, village communities or in this case a wide swamp. Those logs were fun to navigate too. The impression i got was that you were only one very small slip away from jamming your ankle between them

Swamp flora

I have seen photo's of this particular swamp on several blogs and vlogs from previous trekkers. We were fortunate with the water level. Some of the scenes I have witnessed of this swamp the water is thigh to waist deep and trekkers and porters are carrying their packs above their heads.

More swamp flora

Kristy and Lynda. Sisters. Whatever gene pool their parents drank from, it was a good one. Living in Brisbane, Kristy and her husband Glen were probably the best equipped of all the trekkers to handle the humidity and heat.

At this stage, I suspect whatever cocktail of drugs Lynda was on was definitely having the desired effect

Just another meticulously clean village with inspiring views of the Owen Stanley Mountain range. Strangely it was a dry moment of the trek too

Gareth late in the day. If he had previously been regretting the quick answer on Whatsapp to my question of doing Kokoda he was now, with damaged hamstring, probably regretting he was alive at all

Hut views. Always a good thing when you're seated, without the burden of your pack, in the shade, sipping on a luke warm coke purchased from a local business person whilst munching on a packet of Twisties (purchased with the Coke) with the expiry date scratched off the packet

Some of the porters and the gear they carried. All three of them barefoot

Stansol about to set off. After a period of each rest on the trail he'd wait for the discreet nod from Peta to get the group going again. The signal from him to start moving was always a simple small clap of the hands, a discreet ''yumi go'' and then he was off. We'd all form an orderly line behind him and in the first few yards there was always a shuffle of people as the group fell into their various places with the quicker trekkers taking up immediately behind Stansol and the rest of us picking a place in the line where we felt the pace most suited us

Deep in pensive thought Dammo is probably listening to Jenna amuse the group and thinking to himself ''Yup heard that one before too ''

L-R : Lynda, Lisa, Danette, Jenna, Marty, Kristy.

Marty resuming his favoured natural position

It was an afternoon of impossibly steep declines which these next two photos do no justice to whatsoever

Rain sodden tree roots were the bane of our lives. It required concentration on every level and dexterity on yet another level to be able to navigate your way safely down these parts of the trail. The going was always slow in these circumstances

With the rain ever present throughout the afternoon the track only got more perilous and the pace slower so it was with some relief when we finally came into sight of the camp for the night

As always, the first port of call after arriving into camp was to make your way to the river. To wash, bathe sore muscles, refill water bottles and to just wallow in the water and marvel at what we had just accomplished that day

We had been advised, with good reason, by the trekking company that our feet should be our priority. Choosing a good pair of boots was an obvious example of foot care, you'd think.

I only mention this because, much to the mirth of everyone in our group, there had been a question asked on the company webinar prior to the trek as to whether the convenor thought it feasible to do the entire walk in sandals. I am pretty sure everyone on that call, including all 14 in our group, had the same thought at the same time:

"I hope they're not in our group."

To my mind, and given my trekking experience, no boot is ever completely waterproof, although some in our group would disagree. Interestingly, they all wore Salomon boots.

My boots held up very well, but by day's end, when your feet have been encased in even a damp pair of socks, they are going to look like you've spent too many hours in a bath.

My end-of-day routine with regard to my feet was a simple one. Wash them, dry them, spray them with foot powder and then, if it was a dry evening, leave them bare in the sandals I wore around camp. If the evening was wet, I enclosed them in SEALZ waterproof socks. I always left them bare while sleeping.

Come morning, I would clean them again and then smear Vaseline throughout my toes and across the soles of my feet. That routine, combined with a decent pair of socks, meant I remained blister-free. I didn't even get close to seeing one.

A waterlogged foot

Ofi Creek campsite with ''drying hut'' in the background. Not sure my tent was ever pitched on flat ground. Not sure it never rained at night. Pretty sure I woke at least 45 times every night. Very sure my clothes that I hung outside my tent every night were as wet or even wetter than I left them when I went to put them on each morning. Absolutely positive I wasn't the only person who snored. There were some trombone blowers in our group. Not just men either. Just saying :-)