Balancing Rainbows

Double Rainbow over Playas, Ecuador

Once upon a time, on my never ending nomadic search for balance, I lived in a Rainbow Nation.  These days, however, I think it's time to re-examine my meaning of balance because going from one hair extreme to another just isn't cutting it anymore.  

Buddha, Padang Padang

Yes, I need something that will balance and unify my body, mind and soul once and for all?  Maybe it's finally time to take a serious adventure into this Yoga thingy?  

Just one quick question - to maintain balance and achieve my optimum Chi, do I actually have to go to yoga or could I just drink beer in yoga pants? I mean c'mon, what could be more Zen than empty calories?

Sunzal, El Salvador

People have asked, "What kind of yoga do you practice?" I make sure to let them know I'm not locked into any one kind of yoga. No siree, I do leisure center yoga, beach yoga, stand up paddle board yoga and even once did Cruise Ship Yoga.

Of course, that's not quite the answer they're looking for but what does that matter? I'm channeling Shakti, the ultimate feminine power of the universe! There wasn't even a little shake of Shakti in my TRX classes at the Montecito YMCA in California. TRX, total body resistance was designed by a Navy Seal and is pumped full of Yang male energy.  So now I've got the Yin and the Yang sorted out, surely I should start feeling more balanced? Unfortunately my Kundalini, my coiled serpent of energy within, still needs an alarm clock to kick it's slithery ass into action and get me to my lesson on time.

Naturally, on arrival to any kind of exercise class the first consideration is, "Am I wearing the right gear?"  There's only one thing worse than turning up and feeling like a complete kook and that's turning up and looking like one.  The safest option is always black on black with black flip-flops.  Although this backfired on me when the class ended and several pairs of the aforementioned black flip flops were waiting patiently for their soles at the door.  On the way out in the dim light, without my glasses, I accidentally swopped out my rather worn pair of Target thongs for a stunning pair of Havanas with a single diamond bling.  No! Truly! It was an accident.  

Waikiki

In Hawaii, they say: 
"you no leave wid bedda slippa dan you come wid." It certainly did seem particularly bad form, especially on the back of only two lessons so I rushed back the next morning to confess my heinous crime.  Although, more recently I've really been trying hard to move away from the "all black Ninja look". Luckily, after a sweep through the second hand clothing shops, I've managed to secure a lovely pair of animal print leggings. But, I'm still not game to wear them because I think they make me look like mutton dressed as lamb?  Besides, I'd hate to offend the vegan who is practicing one mat back who'd be forced to view my meaty derriere whilst I master "down dog".  Luckily there are no mirrors for me to see that my "down dog" looks more like nervous prairie dog. 

Clothing anxieties aside, the next piece of paraphernalia you have to worry about is the mat.  Currently, mine seems to be shedding little plastic waffly bits. Every time I unroll it, I'm caught in a turquoise blizzard which I surreptitiously sweep under said turquoise mat.  I'm still new to this, do I really want to invest over a hundred dollars in a piece of exercise equipment that won't even double as a towel rack?  Maybe I'll just return to K Mart and look for a new brown $4 mat so at least my synthetic snowflakes will blend into the wooden studio floor? 

Rockclimbing Utah

Yoga is like horizontal rock climbing crossed with ballet.  The sort of thing that makes you think, "Ya, sure, no problem, of course I can stand on one leg and bend over, I can do that." Well, guess what buckwheat?  It ain't so easy squeezy, in fact, it's really hard and I'm squashy in all the wrong places.

Costa Rica

Yet, I have to divulge the Yoga thing must be ticking all my boxes because it's making me believe I can balance rainbows some of the time, not just at the carwash.

Rainbow Wax at the Car Wash

Yes, I must be creating equilibrium in my life because I've been managing to make a session every day (well almost). Don't worry, it's not like I'm secretly planning to run off and join an Ashram or suddenly hand over all my charity shop treasures to the Hare Krishnas. 

Bahamas

I just wanted to support a friend who was partaking in her very own cool Dumb Blonde Adventure to qualify as a yoga teacher in India. Ahh, the very thought conjures images of Julia Roberts cycling carefree through rice paddies on an eat, pray, love journey somewhere. So in silent encouragement, I vowed to practice one yoga class a day to send my Om mantra in her direction.

Unfortunately, my chanting turns into panting especially when my Tapas, my inner heat seems to be set a little higher than everyone else's. The other day I felt like I'd accidentally dropped into a hot yoga class. Frantically I checked around for Mr. Bikram and realized it was time to embrace my Namascray, when the crazy in me honors the crazy in you. Naturally, the heat is the only reason I would ever put on a pair of tiny biker shorts in public (yes they are Ninja black, just in case you're wondering).

Although in confession, there was a different kind of tapas I needed to worry about.  The spicy Spanish sausage kind that I'd gobbled down the night before class.  I anxiously wondered if a thin layer of black lycra would contain the large Harley motorbike just waiting to roar out from my duodenum.  Still, it did provide extra motivation to "find my core" - I was so tense Dr. Kegel would have a hard time squeezing one out.  Instead of leaving the class with my Ananda, my bliss illuminating my face with a Bhakti, devout glow, I looked like I'd gone eight rounds in a Sumo Ninja wrestling competition. 

Hollister Ranch, California

Sometimes I wear a watch, yet another faux pas.  I know it's not cool in these circles but I can't help it.  I need it as a mind control just to be sure how much longer the panting will go on for.  It's not like I would actually have the yogi cojones to leave early, I'd just hide my silent tantrum in child's pose. 

To be fair or even dare I say balanced, there is plenty of upside to yoga.  The fitness, the flexibility, there's always bliss music playing and the teachers have floating hypnotic voices like velvet wrapped steel.  They seduce me to touch my toes, reach a little further, breath a little deeper.  I saw a part of my leg the other day that I haven't visited with in years.  These yoga whisperers give wings to your bird of paradise, your crane, crow or even just a sleeping pigeon. 

 Lake Tanganaki, Tanzania

And sun salutations, what's not to love about that? I've always reverently embraced the sun - mostly from a beach mat. However, I've been working really hard and making some progress within the four corners of my yoga mat. Although I'm nowhere near reaching Namaslay, when you're killing it on your yoga mat.

Dominican Republic

Yoga is teaching me that nothing comes without Drishti, focus. Unfortunately, I have a wandering mind...a couple of mats over there was a girl with an amazing pair of yoga pants patterned with beautiful vines. They twisted up her legs, off the material at her midriff and escaped onto her torso as a vine tattoo. Then the leaves waved my Drishti beyond the four walls and I marveled at the setting sun through the floor to ceiling windows. Silhouettes of rainbow lorikeets flickered amongst the tall stands of Eucalyptus, their chatter serenaded by a cicada chorus in full voice. Swaying around in tree pose surrounded with fluttering Twilight was surely nirvana in itself?

I think I glimpsed the balance of nature.

Finally, as the hard yoga minutes draw to a close the Universe rewards you with meditation time in Shavasana or Yogasm, the feeling of bliss when you're done. Lying flat on your back making snoring noises is a pose completely not available in rock climbing or ballet!  So, yes I am feeling a greater union with Yoga.

Although I have to admit, it has taken me a little longer to hit publish on this blog entry as I wondered what a yoga post would do to my cyberspace karma? I didn't want Lord Shiva to smite me down with his three-pronged trishula. Come to think of it perhaps that is what those twinges are in my left hip.  No, I think what I was waiting for was a little guru inspiration to help balance my thoughts with my body.  And now everything is in alignment. 

I did some yoga for my friend now I'm doing some more for me.

I didn't go to India but I have been on an adventure. Not just a yoga journey but a journey to understand all you need is a little humor and a few inspirational moments to keep balancing rainbows.

Namaste, the acknowledgment of the soul in one by the soul of another.

Miss Stress

I was stressing! How could I channel the poet J. Magee and "slip the surly bonds of earth," to dance "the skies on laughter-silvered wings" when my childhood aviator ambitions had crashed along with a faulty cardboard winged flight off the garden shed roof? I was definitely going to need a pilot. 

With over 25,000 flying hours and a "day job" piloting 777’s, Ross had earned his wings with an encyclopedic Air Force career flying airplanes just like this one. His passion to spiral in the vast freedom of the heavens, inspired a real appreciation for the machine that was going to take us there - his T-28 Trojan, Miss Stress.

 

Ross's intimate knowledge of every pin and every piston instilled confidence and soothed my nerves during his pre-flight brief in the operations room.

The word Trojan is synonymous with courage but I began to question the mettle of my moxie while I gripped Ross's arm as he explained we would be pulling two and half g’s in a 1954 war plane, the same vintage as himself. Climbing up into the cockpit, I admired the nose art painting of his flaxen floozie, reclining on her Caloundra cloud. Miss Stress had asserted her dominance over Ross's other aircraft (a Wirraway, left back in the hanger) and claimed the day as hers.

After completing all the preflight checks, Ross coaxed the nine radial cylinders of the Wright R-1820 engine into life and I began vibrating with the pulsing throb of the propellor.  As the smoky burn of oil curled into my nostrils, I sensed the power coiled behind the throttle.  The North American Aviation T-28 was produced as a basic trainer for the U.S. Airforce and Navy. It has over 1,425 horsepower, a top speed of 345mph (555kph) and a 37,000-foot (11,278-meter) ceiling.  Later versions of the T-28 were fitted with arrester hooks so they could land on aircraft carriers.

Another vintage warplane taxied past and I winged back in time, imagining all the young guns who had been trained for war in this plane -  young aviators, eager to spray ammunition in aerial dogfights.

Being in a trainer plane teaches you there is so much more to flying than flaps and wings. There were levers to mix the petrol, air brakes, an altitude gauge and of course the central control stick that sat between my legs begging for the caress of a novice palm. We taxied out to the runway which wasn't exactly the neatly edged tarmac variety and Ross slid the perspex canopy into place. Encapsulated in the bubble of viewing delight, I started to feel a tad warm in my olive green flight suit. Along with the snug fit of the harness, I had a momentary flash of claustrophobia before we sped towards takeoff.

Banking steeply, suddenly the beauty of this endless euphoric turquoise space rushed into my soul and the ultimate freedom of flight took its first bite into my addictive personality. 

Like a family of scattered mountain spirits, the Glass House peaks rose hard and gray from the emerald landscape. Draped in wisps of smoke from the back burning, I understood how they had reminded James Cook of the glass furnaces back home in Yorkshire, England, hence the name.

After being siphoned off to feed the thirsty houses on the canal, the wide ocean estuary snaked inland towards the mountains. How small their world appeared to me from my elevated perspective.  But, my lofty thoughts of topping "the wind-swept heights with easy grace" (J Magee) were soon over.

Bribie Island and the iridescent blue of the Coral Sea had flipped to where the sky should be. My stomach floated upward as my eyes raced to keep up with the topsy-turvy scenery of a precisely executed aileron roll. It did almost seem possible to touch "the face of God" (J Magee). Although I fervently hoped I wouldn't be meeting him in just a few inverted seconds.

The wings leveled out and the heavy flight helmet stopped pushing my neck into the collar of my flight suit like a turtle.

Was it nausea or was it a sudden wave of realization that I had been on plenty airplanes before but I hadn’t really been flying at all? I’d just been shuffling onto commercialized oversized tin cans with wings, more worried about securing overhead locker space than actually feeling the power of flight. There was no call button for another bread roll on this flight. Miss Stress had indeed become my mistress and she was demanding a physical price for every barrel roll, every wingover. Right there under that dome of perspex, I realized there was a whole other dimension to life that it had taken me 46 years to discover. I had spent all that time on earth living in a 2-dimensional plane.  This world was 3D and took me to the edge of everything, including my physical limits and I was very grateful Ross had kindly zipped a sick bag and handkerchief into the leg pocket of my jumpsuit. Yet, I was mortified that even the thought of barfing in his beautiful plane had entered my dizzy brain.

All too soon it was time to return to the chains of gravity and taxi back to where we had begun.  Ross slid the canopy back and the wind carried cool relief to my clammy brow.

With fading adrenalin, I sickly wondered how on earth I'd plucked up the Trojan courage to do this? Perhaps I'd been happy to hurtle into the sunlit adventure like Amelia Earhart in the belief that the "fun of it is worth the price."  Or perhaps a different mistress had seduced me. I would do well to remember that this beguiling iron-bellied beauty had trained men to deliver bombs, rockets and bullets. 

Wandering back through the museum, the ghosts of wars long forgotten swirled around with my nausea. I remembered the men like those in my family: Henry, Reuben and many other pilots past and I appreciated the windswept frontiers they had flown. Naturally I also thanked the present pilot for his friendship, the gift of flight and for my safe return to terra firma.

Oh and of course I had to remember to thank Greg for capturing those green moments in blue heaven!

The end...

If dirt under your fingernails means your having a good time then I was definitely having a blast.  Although, the lady from Noosa and District Landcare did hand me a pair of gloves to join their riparian rainforest planting project. I thought they looked like riding gloves and coupled with my kerchief, imagined this could be my final Tally Ho before galloping off into the forest.  Digging back in the earth, I chose to plant a cheese tree. Considering we'd started this walk at the Butter Factory, it seemed like a fitting recognition.  

The early morning drizzle had put a slight damper on packing up and the grass cuttings had suddenly morphed into sodden clumps weighing down my already leaden feet.  Shaun announced the Yoga session was about to start and breakfast would be happening on Cooran time.  With only 10 easy kilometers today and the clocks merely a loose guideline, everyone relaxed into the Hinterland tempo and the slow pace of morning chatter.   



My heel was still complaining as my legs engaged into the steady rhythmic plod that had got me this far.  Listening to Alex, I learned this was hungry country, where the plants are on a diet and the less fertile soil had kept the farmers at bay.  Out here in the woods it seems easy to fall into deep and meaningful conversations, perhaps it's the lack of interruptions and luxury of plentiful time?  And in the silent moments, it's simply uplifting to hear the forest alive with laughter and conviviality.  However mild or wild, every person has their story.  Shaun's tale is about highlighting the Noosa Trails and the economic possibilities for the Hinterland towns. 



Initially, the Great Noosa Trail provided me with a fitness goal in my attempt to delay middle age.  In my privileged world where it's easy to be paralyzed by options, a 60km trek through the wilderness can bring everything back to clarified simplicity.  Three days in this beautiful countryside taught me that just as in life, there is always a beginning, a middle and an end.  

The start is a place full of anticipation and exuberance, the end is hopefully one of satisfied completion.  Besides enjoying the journey in a frenzy of cliches, perhaps I learned to embrace the middle (and if that includes accepting my expanding waistline then so be it.)  Yet in truth, your age, your story, your blisters, none of that really matters when you're hiking the Hinterland with your people.  When you're out on the trail, what truly matters is the camaraderie with your friends of the road, because that's what keeps you moving forward, step by step.

In a way, I did manage to achieve my Benjamin Button status,  I took three days to go from having 60 kms ahead to zero.  And now I'm a little sad I'm at the end.  But as the good Dr. Seuss says, "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened."

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.


  

The beginning...

Just the very name "Butter Factory" sounds like a calorifically delicious place to begin.  I'm sure there's an app to work out how many kilojoules you burn over 60kms in 3 days, but who cares about that?  Certainly not the smiling faces of the red kerchiefed volunteers and Shaun who signed me in, handed over my name badge and a yellow bandana, which meant I belonged.  

Intrepidly climbing aboard the shuttle bus to the Botanic Gardens, I bumped into the tag team duo of Di and Gail.  Professionally suited and booted, they confided to me their impressive weekly training routine.  I suddenly wondered if I was really up to this, my backpack was already hurting me and I hadn't even gone anywhere yet.

Shaun's real mission is to raise awareness of the Hinterland trails. I'd say he's doing pretty well already considering it was only 7:30am and he'd already got a bus full of hopefuls peering at the map.  Normally, I like the reassurance of a map, but I felt a little daunted at the distances it proclaimed I would be walking. So I folded it up, put it away and resolved to follow the crowd and the well placed markers.  The only problem was that I was first off the bus and with only a couple of ladies ahead of me, I was almost the leader of the pack.  

Just as I was beginning to enjoy my own company and the warm sunshine, a vicious blue heeler hurtled from a driveway snarling ferociously. Feigning dominance over him with a trembly shout of "Go Home!", I upped the pace to nowhere fast.

The wind cooled my brow and the vast blue skies were filled with bird song and the gentle rustle of eucalyptus.  I let out a contented sigh to mark the magical moment and had a little chuckle over whether I should take the road less traveled.

With the reassuring murmur of walkers behind me and the freedom of the hinterland ahead of me, my mind began to question the real reason for this pilgrimage.  Perhaps it was to find my way? Although, with the early morning coffee and the scary dog encounter, the only thing I was hoping to find was a toilet.

Somewhere between nowhere and elsewhere, just as I was pondering the dilemma of cripping a crapple in the bush, I was joined by my first friend of the road, Annie.  We fell into companionable conversation and so I decided to follow the African proverb that says, "If you want to go far go together."  However, she was setting such a blistering pace I wasn't sure if I would  live to regret it.

The Gods were smiling upon me when we disturbed a python who was basking on the track. Annie was an official snake relocater, "But only in Western Australia," she informed me. What did I care? She shifted it with her walking stick and casually continued on. Annie had also trained as a paramedic which was another good reason to kick up my aching heels and keep up with my new best friend.

Guided into to the pop up tea tent by Wendy's wheels, the walking was more than half done.

With the restorative power of carrot cake and tea under my belt, the last few kilometers were a breeze.

Perhaps I should have taken better heed of the instructions on the last sign of the day?

 

Instead of waiting for the bus, I decided to follow the man in the felt hat who I imagined was Peter the goat herder all grown up. Or maybe the haunting melodies of Edelweiss lured me to join the Von Trapp family and escape to Kin Kin on foot over the mountain.

What's a couple of extra kms between mountain mates? Finally, I made it into Nirvana .... the Kin Kin pop up foot massage.

The last rays of sun were falling on my fellow nomads, when I made my way from tent city towards the bright lights of the art gallery.  

I had been promised of a glass of champagne. 

Making sure Shaun had at least one champers in hand, I noted a curious door at the back of the hall and wondered if this was my last chance to "exit stage left"? 

The warm buzz of alcohol in my veins persuaded me that my pilgrimage must continue until at least after dinner.  Mouthwatering food by The Black Ant Catering Company and a glass of red wine with my friends from the road convinced me that trail walking was indeed a most excellent idea.  I gaily toasted to the 22kms to come tomorrow.

Zipping into my tent, I drifted asleep to the sounds of the bug zapper on the house next door, the snoring camper in the adjacent tent, the cranking tunes of the local pub band and the occasional police siren pulling over suspicious drivers. These Kin Kin folk sure know how to put the life into the Country Life.

.



  

The Great Noosa Trail

It doesn't matter if you're on some far flung exotic location traveling Cape Town to Cairo, or simply taking a trek in your own backyard, every great journey has a beginning, a middle and an end.

The Great Noosa Trail begins in the Hinterland of the Sunshine Coast in Cooroy and meanders through some 60kms of the most scenic valleys, rainforest and farmlands that Queensland has to offer.  Spending the first night in Kin Kin and the second in Cooran, the journey ends in Pomona after an optional climb up the mountain.  

What makes this walk great isn't just the 150 participants, the vast distance or the stunning views back over Noosa, this journey is great because of the people. It's made great by the camaraderie of the friends of the road you meet along the way and the excellent organization of the man behind it all, Shaun. He humbly admitted that behind his smiling laughter he cracks the whip on his red kerchiefed posse of volunteers. They make everything run smoothly from the bacon and egg breakfast to the luggage co-ordination.

Everyone has a great reason to begin the Noosa Trail, I thought my reason was to avert Middle Age in a frenzy of fitness.  However, somewhere in the middle of my journey, curled up snug in my tent with the sounds of cicadas gently blowing on the breeze, I realized this was about starting something, persevering through the blisters and aching legs to claim my prize of completion.  So it's into the wilderness, just me, my organic coconut water and 150 soon to be new best friends.