by Krista | May 5, 2021 | Autumn
When my middle brother Evan killed himself in February, my life changed forever. The loss of a sibling is always devastating, but there’s a special kind of pain when that loss is due to suicide. There are no answers that can assuage such grief, no explanations, no reasons, it must simply be felt, honoured, and endured.
Some of the grief can be shared, but most of it can only be borne privately, quietly.
I went to the mountains with my grief, alone in a wonky tent as rain poured and winds howled. It felt like the sky itself was grieving with me. I hiked for hours each day, getting drenched to the skin as I trudged and slipped my way down muddy trails through the rainforest, letting the storms camouflage my grief from the occasional passing hiker as I sobbed and hiked and talked to Evan. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore, and then I laughed, knowing how Evan would shake his head at me and chuckle and say, “Girl, you’re crazy, but I love you.”
I talked to him as I hiked along swollen streams, clambered gingerly over moss-slick logs and boulders, and emerged from dense rainforest to breathtaking views of the plains far below. I pointed out amazing mushrooms and gorgeous lizards and the tiniest of wildflowers and grinned to myself at how exasperated he would’ve been at me stopping every few feet to take pictures of red berries and dripping ferns and incredible fungi.
I linked arms with grief and didn’t let go, didn’t turn away, didn’t worry one bit what anyone thought of the red-eyed woman camping alone in a tent nearly flattened by storms. I wrote my grief, drew my loss, trekked my pain, and each night, slept like a rock. Each morning I woke up feeling stronger, braver, more connected to the world. And when my final day in the mountains dawned, I was ready to go home to my Bear, our animals, our farm, our life.
I don’t know why Evan killed himself. I never will. But, as I hiked mile after mile, I came to peace with that. I don’t need to know. I can trust, accept, and respect his choice in spite of the horrendous pain it inflicted on those who love him. For him, it was the best possible choice, and I will honour it.
I will also wake up every day and make my best possible choices. I will choose life and choose love. I will embrace all avenues of healing possible and strengthen relationships with people who see me, know me, and love me faithfully. I will keep creating, keep building, keep loving, and keep looking for ways to grow, learn, explore, and delight.
And I’ll keep going back to the mountains to restore my soul, body, and spirit. xo
by Krista | Mar 17, 2018 | Summer
I am home safe and sound from Tasmania, my head and heart full of stories and experiences to share with you in the months to come. But first I need to finish documenting my heart-strengthening adventures solo camping and solo hiking in the Bunya Mountains.
Thanks to the valiant Old Ladies of Courage who provide beacons of fearlessness for me, my remaining days were ones of peace.
Every morning I would wake well before sunrise, thoroughly rested after sleeping on my teetering pile of mattresses in the cool mountain air. Fortified by hot coffee and fried potatoes and sausage, I spent hours each day hiking the trails in and around Bunya Mountains National Park.
I loved it. All of it. The broad trails spongy from thick layers of fallen leaves, wallabies and bush turkeys scavenging for food in the undergrowth, and, most of all, the trees.
The trees are different here. Ancient. Their roots cavorting and twisting in delightfully eerie patterns that make them seem as if they might go ambling through the forest at night once all the humans are tucked away out of sight.
They make me feel safe and secure, for they’ve stood so long, seen so much, yet just keep standing and growing.
They also comfort me, for they remind me that even though they’re surrounded by other plants and trees, they still have to do their own growing. They have to push up through the rainforest canopy to find life-giving light. They have to send their roots out to nourish themselves. And when they get injured by storms or humans, they have to heal themselves and keep on going, scarred but magnificent.
They remind me that in life we are alone, but not alone. We may be surrounded by life and light, close to others who support, cheer, and encourage us, but we still have to grow and strengthen and heal alone. We have to do the work of thriving, of claiming a spot for ourselves and searching for light and nourishment until we find it.
But we’re luckier than the trees. If we can’t thrive in the spot where we’re planted, if we are withering from abuse, neglect, and lack of nutrients for body and soul, we get to pull ourselves up by the roots and plant ourselves somewhere else. It is hard, and scary as hell, but we can do it.
It did my heart good to see lush life in the rainforest, to see that even with only a few hours of sunlight each day, these plants are verdant and healthy and strong. That is comfort to me. None of us live in everlasting sunlight. We all experience darkness, sometimes horrible darkness that seems to last forever, but there is light, and if we are brave and look hard, we can find enough to keep us going until the darkness lifts.
I’m so thankful for the light-bringers in this world. Those who speak love and comfort and truth, those who say nothing but give amazing hugs, those precious few who reach into our darkness with flickering candles and say, “This way, darling. You’re almost there.”
We need each other. Sometimes we need the light, and sometimes we get to be the light, and sometimes we’re so tired we just sit like fungus on an old log and look odd but interesting.
Today I’m grateful for life, for as long as we’re alive, there’s always hope.
There’s the hope of strong minds and healthy bodies and true friendship and real love and safe homes and enough money and even hope for simple, good things that do nothing but bring us joy.
Today those things include cuddling our new Rottweiler puppy, Fezzik, making medieval shields with Bear for a local school, and getting ready for the arrival of lovely medieval friends tomorrow. I’m sure looking forward to big hugs, good talks, and cooking sausages over the campfire.
What little things are bringing you joy today? xo
by Krista | Jan 28, 2016 | Summer
It’s a lusciously dark and rainy morning as Queensland prepares for a super cell storm heading our way. Hopefully it will just bring us good, drenching rains and no storm damage. On such a cozy sort of day, it’s lovely to work from my bed, warm under the doona, hot cuppas never too far away.
I took a break from sharing my Southern Queensland adventures with you to concentrate on my new job as Association Account Coordinator for Jennifer Cunha Law Office in West Palm Beach, Florida. In this astonishing age of technological advancement, I can work from my office in Australia for a law firm in Florida, having meetings on Skype or join.me, making phone calls through VOIP (voice over internet protocol), and conducting business through various online resources. It is brilliant. I’m learning so much and thoroughly enjoy my new co-workers who are not only skilled at their jobs, but somehow manage to make the whole process hilarious and fun at the same time.
My new work hours are 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. Queensland time, so you can imagine I’m a bit weary by the end of the day when I usually write my blog posts. But my dear ol’ body is getting into the swing of things now, and I’m figuring out a new schedule that works well.
So today we’re heading back into the Bunya Mountain rainforest where all is dark and cool, the trails are springy with moist layers of detritus, and there are treasures to be found if you just look down.
I’m enamored by moss, lichen, and brilliantly hued fungi. They lend such a magical air to the forest.
And mushrooms. They are wonderful too. I have no desire to eat them, but they always put me in mind of folk tales and fairy tales and stories from the Black Forest.
The rainforest was an ever changing vista. One moment we were oohing over fabulous fungi discoveries or aahing at a fat goanna waddling past, and suddenly we’d round a bend and discover a nearly hidden grove of Australian grasstrees with their marvelous pot bellied grass skirts swaying in the breeze.
And then it felt like we’d plunged into a scene from Jurassic Park or Tarzan as massive vines twisted and coiled across the forest floor then up into the trees before disappearing into the canopy above. The pictures don’t convey their immensity, but each of the larger strands have the girth of an average size person, the smaller ones are as big as a leg or stoutly muscled arm. Incredible.
Aren’t these tree roots wondrous? Sinewy and curvaceous, staggeringly huge.
Then more vines coiling themselves across the landscape like tentacles or serpents.
And more splendid tree roots. Wouldn’t this tree make a most excellent fort or hideout?
Exploring the Bunya Mountains through the rainforest trails was incredible. Mind-blowing, heart-soothing, soul-soaring.
After so much inspiration and wonder, we simply had to end the day with comfort food: garlicky mashed potatoes with lemon pepper, crispy roasted sausages, and red wine.
Sue and I crawled into our beds that night with pleasantly tired bodies and big smiles. I listened contentedly to the wind buffeting my tent as I read a couple of chapters by lamp light, then drifted off for a thoroughly good sleep.
xo
by Krista | Jan 20, 2016 | Summer
Growing up near the exquisitely beautiful Rocky Mountains in Canada made me a lifelong lover of alpine meadows. My childhood was spent hiking them with my parents and three little brothers, assorted cousins, aunts, uncles, and family friends. We young ones would race across the lush expanse, leaping as high as we could off obliging logs and stumps, collect fistfuls of wildflowers, and search the undergrowth for tiny alpine strawberries.
I search out alpine meadows wherever I can find them. I’ve hiked to them in British Columbia, Italy, and Alberta, Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, Slovenia, Bosnia, and Albania. Each one is unique yet boasts the same elements: stunning views, cool, fresh air, and wondrous beauty.
Hiking in the Bunya Mountains was my first experience of an Australian alpine meadow, and I wasn’t disappointed.
The instant recognition in my heart almost hurt with its intensity. Emotionally I was whisked back to my childhood, and wouldn’t have been surprised in the least to see Bighorn Sheep grazing in the distance or a black bear ambling along to the next berry patch.
I couldn’t stop smiling as we wandered through, watching millions of wildflowers dancing in the buffeting winds, stopping to watch a huge goanna waddle across our path and hustle into the undergrowth.
The trees, flowers, and wildlife in an Australian alpine meadow may be different to what I’m used to, but the feeling is the same: freedom, space, unfettered joy.
Sue and I walked slower through the meadow than we did on any other part of our trek through the Bunya Mountains, both of us wanting to soak up the bliss of cool winds and gorgeous vistas. We were so glad we chose the 10 km hike so we didn’t miss out on this treasure of a place.
At last we couldn’t drag our heels any longer and bid farewell to the alpine meadow.
It certainly helped that the next part of our hike was entered through this magical archway. Who could resist such loveliness?
Do you have a place from your childhood that always brings back happy memories? xo
by Krista | Jan 18, 2016 | Summer
Entering the Bunya Mountain rainforest is like stepping into a fairyland.
The hum of traffic disappears, distant voices are silenced, and even the sunlight vanishes behind the canopy of trees that towers far, far overhead, only slipping through occasional gaps to provide shimmers of light on rain-drenched leaves.
It’s a wonderful place to walk, cool and dark, moist and lush, with so many treasures underfoot to discover. We found tiny mushrooms and vivid fungi clusters, glossy clumps of berries and showers of flowers that drifted down from unseen branches above.
We gazed in wonder at the massive trees around us, each one a unique configuration of color and texture, some swallowed up by eerie strangler figs, like the ghost gum below.
Up and down, side to side, our eyes danced from one beauty to another. Aren’t these sculptures amazing? I think they’re some sort of fungi, but they looked like ice crystals or snow carvings.
I was awed by the tangles of roots that tumbled over each other, twisting and turning before disappearing into a sea of ferns.
The rainforest is a dappled vision of shades of green, but now and then a burst of color would appear in the form of tropical flowers or vivid red and yellow leaves that tumbled down from the canopy above.
We found waterfalls, lazy streams, and crystal clear pools that looked like scenes out of Swiss Family Robinson.
We clambered over big rocks to sit by one stream and lingered there a long time munching on crisp apples and walnuts. We listened to the gurgle of water, the shushing of wind through the trees, and chatted amiably with other hikers as they trudged past.
One thing I love about my friend Sue is she’s comfy to travel with. A great conversationalist with interesting things to chat about, she’s also at ease with quiet.
In the rainforest you need that companionable silence, time to walk mindfully and let your thoughts amble along wherever they need to go as you bask in the wonder of magnificent trees and delicate ferns, glossy fallen leaves underfoot and serene little streams tumbling gently beside the trail.
With each mile you feel the stress of everyday life dissipate, and rather than worrying about bills or troublesome issues, your brain is lulled into delicious rest. It’s lovely.
After a couple of hours on the trail, the incline grew steeper and suddenly we emerged into a breathtaking alpine meadow.
