Larapinta Trail: lost and found

There is a mystery about Central Australia that is deeply, quietly alluring. I had felt drawn to it for a long time but it wasn't until I embarked on the Larapinta Trail, just outside of Alice Springs, that I came to understand why it is so captivating and confounding all at once.

There were times it was so challenging that I wondered why on earth I was doing it, but when I found my feet, a world of incredible beauty opened up to greet me.

My spirits were lifted by delicate wildflowers scattered over the jagged orange-red rock like fairy dust, by flocks of tiny flitting fairy wrens and honey eaters, by the valleys and gorges that descended from the precarious ridges we walked along, by the ethereal ghost gums with their branches outstretched like arms across the bright blue sky, and by the gentle sparkle of the stars and muddled current of the Milky Way that mesmerised us in ways no human entertainment could.

I must admit it took time to find my way to that perspective. In the early days on the trail, my attention was often immediately focused on the challenges right in front of me, which at times felt like they would overpower me if I let them.

The most pressing of these were the soles of my superlative Asolo boots of seven years finally giving way on day one to the harshest, sharpest ground I’ve ever walked on, leaving us to feebly hold them together with duct tape, string and my gaiters. My broken boots produced blisters all over the soles of my feet and under my big toes and then there was the cyst behind my knee whose appearance on the first day made my knee and calf muscle strangely stiff, swollen and shaky. This wasn’t helped by the weight of my 20 kilogram backpack bearing down on my shoulders as starkly as the sun, to which we each added five litres of extra water every second day to sustain us until we got to the next water source.

I can feel the dread again in my body as I list these challenges. You might think I’m complaining about something that I volunteered to do and is part of trekking, and that’s true. But to appreciate the beauty of this journey, I had to be honest about what was hard. I had to be humbled by the disappointment that this was not the nurturing experience in nature I wanted it to be, and to accept that I was in it all the same. 

There were many times I was just as hard on myself as the landscape. I wished I could be faster, fitter and unfazed by the challenges of the trek and the unhelpful places my mind leapt to as I faced these struggles. But I learned it takes more courage to keep walking with humility and compassion for my body, with all of its limitations and all of its capabilities; to hold space for power and frailty, beauty and brokenness to co-exist.

I was also nurtured by the kindness and compassion of my friend and hiking partner, who graciously took on camp responsibilities when I needed tend to my feet and aching legs. Kirsten and I have been friends a long time so she knows how to gently chide me when my expectations of walking time are rather unrealistic, to keep my clumsy hands and feet away from the gas stove, and to make me laugh with her jokes along the way.

On the fourth day, I found my groove. And as my spirits lifted, so did my eyes. I was able to open to and delight in the landscape. Even with my calf muscle giving way and the wind whipping around us, I felt a lightness and joy bubble up inside. It carried me up the rough, steep climb to Brinkley Bluff where we camped that night.

I knew that all the challenges had been worth it for this: the panoramic views of the West MacDonnell ranges, the dusky pinks, blues and burnt oranges as the sun set to reveal the most spectacular stars, and then again as the sun rose in the morning.

Like every place we camped along the trail, we had Brinkley Bluff all to ourselves. Experiencing such peace and solitude here made it very hard to leave. It will remain one of the most treasured of all my trekking memories.  

Now that my physical injuries are fading and I’m back with the comforts of home, I look at these photographs and it seems so otherworldly that I ask myself, Was I really there?

In that way, the enigma that drew me there lingers. My mind can't name it, but my heart knows.

Big thanks to Kirsten for her friendship and the wisdom to bring duct tape and string (even if they originally were meant for the tent, they literally kept me walking!). Gratitude also to Zak of Larapinta Trail Trek Support for the transport to and from the trail, food drops, invaluable tips and insight into his fascinating life. If you decide to do the walk yourself, call Zak and make sure you have new boots!

Weekend with the Dailys

In April I met a group of women at a week-long slow living retreat led by Beth Kirby of Local Milk. Among us was Annabelle Hickson of The Dailys, who lives with her young family on a pecan farm in the Dumaresq Valley in inland northern New South Wales.

We were all enchanted by the way Annabelle captures the beauty in her daily life so there was talk of making a road trip out to visit her. It’s a testament to Annabelle that we were willing to travel from far and wide for a long weekend, and for two new friends to join us.

Our Weekend with the Dailys was about being inspired by the beauty of Annabelle’s world and embracing the fun of adventure and creative play that grown ups can too readily let go.

Annabelle introduced us to her husband, Ed and their three gorgeous children. She showed us her cottage on the hill, her brilliantly transformed studio and the ethereal tobacco barns where her beautiful shoots of foraged foliage and flowers often take place.

Annabelle also opened up her local community and introduced us to wonderful people, places and stories.

Her neighbours, Julia and Philip Harpham at Moorabinda Station, were our generous hosts. Not only did they offer up their 1940s shearers’ quarters (which inspired us no end), they took us searching for brumbies, up the hill to drink Prosecco as the sun set over their 10,000 acre property, and they entertained us with their stories of growing up and making a life in the region.

        Image by Lean Timms

Other neighbours, Paul and Jenny Magner, invited us into the home they had built from scratch to hear their inspiring story of healing, self-sufficiency and sustainability.

As they hunt, gather and grow most of what they eat, Paul brought us back to the heart of knowing where our food comes from by showing us how to kill, pluck and prepare two chickens and a duck for us to cook that night.

My parents grew up on farms but as a city girl I hadn’t witnessed this before so I have to admit I was a little apprehensive. However, Paul’s quiet, confident manner put me at ease. We went with him to catch the birds and he explained the process to us so we both understood and knew what to expect before he swiftly and respectfully killed them for us, and then took us through scalding, plucking and preparing them.

I was sobered and grateful for bearing witness to the reality of what consuming meat involves and surprisingly relieved at how simple it is and how mindful it can be. I wondered how we’d all feel if we connected with our food in this way.

In further unstinting country hospitality, Paul and Jenny made pizzas in their outdoor wood fired oven with the toppings we brought to share.

Then there was the magic of what we created together back at the Moorabinda shearers' quarters, the most idyllic setting for our winter gathering in the Australian bush.

The modest quarters were made cosy by foliage, open fires and candlelight. We warmed ourselves on the cool nights with hot toddies and hot water bottles, and we gently greeted the mornings sipping cardamom and vanilla-infused coffee. I remember lying in bed at night thinking of the shearers who had been here over the years and what kind of life it must have been, moving about from station to station. And how did they wrestle with the vagaries of the wood-fired oven to fill their hungry bellies? We novices had our work cut out for us deciphering the oven's secrets and we yielded to the respect it commanded for simple, unfussy food.

But don't for a second think we didn't see beauty and inspiration all around us. The smallest details brought sighs of wonder and delight, such as grasping the roots of enormous cabbages, exploring the stillness of the woolshed and setting the table in the creamy long grass outside.

There was joy to be found in every moment - from raucous laughter as we sat around after dinner to the gentle conversation that unfolds when you are completely absorbed and time feels suspended, like a dream.

A particularly dreamy highlight was taking part in preparing and sharing the Sunday Suppers winter brunch we adapted for our Australian bush setting. It was a loving dedication to slow living and the challenge of trying our hand at making bagels from scratch and negotiating with our wood-fired oven.

Our Sunday Suppers Winter Brunch Menu
Homemade everything bagels with nigella and poppy seeds
Tea and ginger cured barramundi
Whipped cream cheese with lemon, crème fraiche and olive oil
Citrus salad with a warm honey, lemon and sparkling wine dressing
Pecan tart with honey

Image by Lean Timms of lean + meadow

Image by Lean Timms of lean + meadow

You can read more about our brunch and all the other wonderful things we got up to in the Weekend with the Dailys ebook. You can view and download the ebook for free here and perhaps be inspired to create your own country gathering.

Most of all, I hope you are encouraged to seek out some adventure and play for yourself, especially if you're a grown up. Stuart Brown describes play as intensely pleasurable. It energises and enlivens us. It eases our burdens. It renews our natural sense of optimism and opens us up to new possibilities. I left the weekend feeling all of those things and returned home full of inspiration and eager to keep up the creative momentum in my daily life. It was just what I needed. It's what we all need.

Heartfelt thanks to Annabelle, Ed, Julia, Philip, Jenny, Paul and all the Weekend with the Dailys women.

The stories behind staples: Schulz Organic Farms and the Great Ocean Road

Since moving to Melbourne, I’ve bought my yoghurt, milk, quark and cream from Schulz Organic Farms at local farmers’ markets. Their products are my staples so I’ve gotten to know the guys as I stock up each week.

As a city dweller, it means a lot to me to have a relationship with the people dedicated to making the food I’m fortunate to have access to. Knowing the background and vision behind it provides a broader perspective and meaning, making it more than just beautiful food.

It’s great to know that Schulz Organic Farms value the connection too by choosing to have a direct link to customers and other producers by selling mostly through farmers’ markets, as well as cultivating personal relationships with the cafes, restaurants and the local specialty shops they supply.

As time has gone by, I’ve wanted to know more about their story. So, one day, I found myself asking Simon Schulz if I could visit the farm to see and learn more about what they do. Graciously, he said yes, and off on a road trip we went one weekend in June.

Before arriving at the farm, it was clear that the landscape of southwest Victoria had something to say. Driving out along the Great Ocean Road, there are stunning vistas are of jagged headlands shorn away by wild seas and wind that comes straight up from the Antarctic.

And on calm days, peaceful inlets of azure waters protected by sandstone and limestone cliffs offer a haven for humans and gentle plant life, which at other tempestuous times seems impossible.

Turning inland, the rolling hills are dotted mostly with dairy farms, the rusty tones of the last autumn colours and the moody grey skies that bring the high rainfall responsible for the lush grasses. And in late afternoon, they are rippled with the rhythm of the cows making their way single file up to the dairy for milking.

Schulz Organic Farms are tucked away from this huge landscape, just outside the small town of Timboon. They are both part of the area’s dairy farming community and quietly, intently building something unique.

The Schulz family has applied biodynamic and organic principles to their farm since 1971. The farm (and farmhouse cheesery) was started three generations ago by Herman Schulz, with the dairy farm carried on by son, Michael. Now, 30 year old grandson, Simon, is the extending that lineage to embrace the paddock to plate philosophy by producing milk, cream, cheese, yoghurt and more that can also be tasted at the onsite café.

Exploring the farm’s paddocks, dairy, calving pen and factory with Simon, it was clear what makes his products taste so good. There is a thoughtful approach to every aspect of what they do – from the health and sustainability of the soil and grasses, right through to their minimal intervention in processing to make small batches of the best product possible.

Being free to roam, rest and feed on large paddocks and treated with care, it’s no wonder the cows seemed so gentle and contented. They were delightfully curious and calm in our presence, even when we witnessed a calf literally just born take its first gangly gallops.

It really struck me as exemplifying Michael Pollan’s notion that “you are what you eat eats”. It was clear that the Schulz family understands that the health of the milk, the cow and the environment are not separate. They are one thing.

My intuition (and taste buds) had told me that Schulz Organic Farms were doing something special, and my relationship with Simon opened a door to understanding why. Now, having been there and experienced it myself, I have a deeper understanding and appreciation of the careful choices that go into making the farm and their products what they are. I don’t just know where my food comes from, I have a connection to the place, animals, people and values that infuse them. That’s what I can taste, and that’s why it tastes so good.

Big thanks to Simon Schulz for being so generous in sharing his time and story. For more information, visit Schulz Organic Farms or go and say hi to Simon at the market like I did.