Narcissus Bay is a place haunted by the ghost of my past self. She's in my muscle memory, my familiarity with the earthy smells, endemic bird calls and the rhythmic sound of walking along duckboard. She's in my knowledge of the area, and the sense of home I feel there. Past Jen straps on her gaiters, hoists up a 20kg pack, and walks and walks and walks. The uphill, downhill, winding, bush path. She does this for 8 days straight. Time and time again, through the changing seasons, over 5 separate years. She sweats, sweeps, heartbeats, dips in icy creeks, greets people, checks parks passes, answers questions, mops floors, scrubs toilets, lugs sloshing buckets, faces the wind, breathes it in, pulls on her sodden rain jacket and wet boots, and prunes the bauera. She's competent, confident, fit and knowledgeable.
I'm sure those of you that have lost someone are sometimes vividly reminded of them, by a scent, sound or place. It was my first visit back to the Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park, 8 years and 9 months after being struck down with myalgic encephalomyalitis/ chronic fatigue syndrome, and a not-unexpected trigger for the grief of losing the person I once was.
It felt so strange to be there. She was still so near, inside my cells. Were the past 9 years only a dream? Apart from a new jetty, new verandah on the old hut, and the fact I no longer fit very well into my hiking pants, the only other change was the tea tree thickets around the lake edge had grown taller and denser. I even greeted my old colleague, wandering by in his gumboots and big red gloves, off to clean the toilet, and looking no older than he did when we worked together.
So strange, because she's still so far away. On the other side of an invisible, but cataclysmic chronic condition, that came out of nowhere. Past Jen: healthy, young, friendly, oblivious, track-ranger Jen, had no idea what was coming to knock her off her path. I am now a 41 year old disability pensioner, and I took two days to drive from Hobart to Lake St Clair, breaking up the journey by sleeping in my van on the way. I was nervous, as it was an adventure out of my known physical safe zone, although I had friends to carry my pack on the short journey to and from the ferry. I was cautiously hopeful when I pulled up okay after a couple of 3 km walks, though they were flattish, and slow as usual. I yearned to keep going, but I had already walked much further than I have since 2016, and if there's anything I've learnt from ME /CFS, it's that pacing is the boss, consequences for going beyond your limits can be severe, and boundary-testing must always be gentle.
The walkers completing the 65km Overland Track could've been the same people as last decade. People discussed their cravings for hot showers and hot chips, and who was catching the ferry versus who was hiking the final 16 km around the lake. They compared various bits of gear, complained about the mud and toilets, jealously wondered what luxuries the private tour groups had that they didn't, and asked if anyone had any spare mosquito repellent. Sitting and boiling my trangia on the verandah, I told a lot of people about my condition, as bushwalkers tend to be friendly sorts, keen to compare mountain-climbing notes, and my disability is not a visible one. I'm matter-of-fact about it.
"I didn't climb the Acropolis this trip, but I have many times in the past. There's a small tricky bit near the top, but it's otherwise pretty straightforward……. No, I'm just camping here for a few days, going for short wanders, sitting by the river and having lots of naps. My battery only charges to under 10% these days……….. It sucks, but I'm much better off than I was, and so much better than some people with CFS, who are stuck in darkened rooms for years, and can't even stand up long enough to shower................. No, I don't know what caused it."
Only one man, a teacher, immediately understood me, as he had been reading the blog of a previous student of his, in Italian. I felt grateful for this fellow sick woman on the other side of the world, her communication efforts, and our distant connection.
I know that everyone has lost the version of themselves they were 9 years ago. The younger, stronger, less problematic bodies. The naivety. The possibilities that seemed to exist at that time. But my loss was abrupt rather than gradual. One month I was skipping up boulders to the summit of Mount Ossa, the tallest peak in Tasmania. The next month I was too unwell to sit upright in the doctor's waiting room and had to lie on the floor. (I started taking my camping mat to appointments after this). My transmutation has also been more diminishing than the also-significantly-life-altering portal of parenthood, which most of my cohort have entered since then. It's been more like suspended animation. In the early days I spent months mostly in bed, submerged under a swamp of flu-like malaise, where I could barely even talk for long, let alone take out the rubbish bins or hang my laundry. My early 30s worries about a potential career change and finding a partner to have a family with dropped away, as I struggled to live in my new, sick body, that just wasn't getting better, no matter how many restrictive diets, medications or "cures" of varying credibility that I tried.
It's also been a time of increased humility, compassion, patience and deepening growth. There's been grief, pain and frustration, but deep down I've mostly been okay. Unlike many others, I've been lucky enough to have been believed and supported by friends and family, and I live in beautiful Hobart, able to gaze out from my house at beautiful kunanyi, solid and steady under the ever-changing sky.
Visiting Narcissus Bay was emotionally complex. But so beautiful. The 'mud' that everyone was complaining about smelt of delicious, wet, clean earth to me. The water was freezing, tannin-dark and pure. The buttongrass was golden, and the cider gums and cabbage gums tall, stately and gorgeous. Wildflowers and coral lichens decorated the edges of the path: yellow splashes of Hibbertia, purple fairies aprons, and white mountain-rocket. The rainforest was full of rot and life: old, soft, damp and green. Echidnas were furry, cute and enigmatic as they foraged for insects. The piles of wombat poo deposited along the trail were delightfully square. Honey eaters chirped, and wattlebirds defended their territory with harsh croaks. The black-currawong calls echoed across the crumbling dolerite peaks at dusk, as the platypus prowled under the water. I felt clenches of grief. But also a great expansion of gratitude. Past Jen, who was housebound for the first few years of CFS, had no idea she'd ever recover enough to return to this place she loved so much. It was a precious few days.
