The middle...

However long the night, dawn will always break. And, I had to admit, it had been an interminably long night. The red wine induced stupor kept me slumbering until just before midnight. I'd woken up with a tongue as dry as Ghandi's sandal and a headache which throbbed in time to the bass drumbeat coming from the last dregs of Karaoke singers down at the pub. The freezing cold Aldi sleeping bag had turned out to be barely more than a Gortex shell. Adding insult to aching legs, the little air I had managed to blow into the mattress had already leaked out in an exhalation of bad breath.  Note to self - don't buy camping equipment from a grocery store.  Lying there, refusing to deal with the creeping hypothermia and worsening dehydration, I focused instead on the pain levels radiating from my right hip and growled under my breath about a future filled with imminent porcelain joint replacements.  I wondered if venturing out into the glacial air to put on more clothes would be worth the effort.   Two extra pairs of leggings, one puffer jacket, one woolly hat, two antihistamine tablets (hopefully the very drowsy kind) and 2 Osteo Panadols later, I managed a few more hours of fitful dozing. 

When the first dawn rays sparkled on dew-soaked grass, I squinted to check that it wasn't frost.  Creaking into a hunched ball, I poured a lukewarm coffee from yesterday's thermos into my wine stained mug and cynically toasted to Day Two - the middle of my odyssey.

Beckoned to breakfast by the mocking call of the Kookaburra, the smell of bacon and eggs convinced me to lace up my shoes and continue onwards.  The cheery calls of camaraderie from my fellow campers pulled me into a psyche of collective consciousness.  I wasn't the only one who was suffering.  We were all tired, but an unlucky few were forced to withdraw.  Devastated, they nursed their blisters and injured body parts into the shuttle bus.  It was time to dig deep, pull up the tent pegs and head off into the prairie. 

In the verdant beauty of rolling hills, everything was indeed going well until I carefully relocked a gate and turned to find myself face to face with bulls!  Dirty great snorting pawing at the ground bulls (well okay -  beautifully groomed glistening Jersey daddy cows).  Regardless, they were paying me far too much attention as I tiptoed through the tulips thistles.  Luckily, I was soon rescued by two of the red kerchief brigade.   They were local Black Mountain boys who helped me shrug off my bovine attack fears for the next few kilometers and focus on the cute calves instead.  

At the "halfway point" (what's one more optimism induced white lie amongst 150 friends?) I left the boys behind and scrambled up the open slopes alone, following in the footsteps of the intrepid explorers ahead.  

After puffing and cursing up the steep climb into Woondum National Park, I fell in to step with a Bonnie lassie who kept promising me a side excursion to view stands of bamboo.  

This blister sister was really glad to finally crest the hill and make it to the lookout where there was a pop up fruit stand.

With all thoughts focused on my oozing heel, it was only much later I thought to ask who was James M McKane?  After scouring the archives of the National Library, I found there was very little mention of Mr. McKane other than he returned from the Great War to become a farmer.  In 1953, he died aged 73 after having spent his last 30 years in Cooran as a local Councillor and Mason.  Defying the clothing conventions of 1939, he cooly attended the Noosa Shire Council meeting in shorts and shirt with no tie while his colleagues sweated it out in formal attire.  A local with such refreshing aplomb deserved a lookout named after him.  I relished the view from the top of this Great Trail as the heat on the horizon shimmered below the cirrus clouds.  Perhaps Mr. McKane was sending a cooler weather front our way?

With the dramatic backdrop of the Glass House Mountains and the looming shadow of Mount Pomona, I literally had our second overnight stop of Cooran in my sights.  Originally the Gubbi Gubbi people called it Guran which means tall or high up.  I hoped this didn't mean it would be a steep incline on the home straight after being promised a few kilometers of gentle meander DOWN to the Cooran Rec Club.  

A surprise Lama encounter got me thinking about dinner and the possibility of some extra lama wool padding for my sleeping bag.  As I hauled my weary gluteus most tiredius through the scattering of tents already pitched on the sports field, I felt a keen sense of belonging with these nomadic bush walkers.  Our stiff and weary tribe were quickly replenished with hot showers and a hearty roast dinner and the crooning tunes of a female vocalist.  Embraced by the irrepressible laughter of my yellow kerchiefed kinfolk, I felt an overwhelming sense of affinity and a bittersweet triumph that my journey was winding towards its culmination.