Go your own way

Musing about life while walking in the bush

View from Mount Vincent, WA. Image: Monique Mulligan

That day, we had planned to drive to Victoria Park for a meal at one of our favourite restaurants … or perhaps test our tastebuds with something new. In Perth, this area offers a feast for every palate and budget - it’s a paradise of cheap eats with a few elegant, arty establishments: handmade noodles, samosas, momo, falafel, ramen, Korean BBQ and hotpot, seafood, Berliner kebabs. Walking down the long road is a culinary tour that will delight any foodie (and can often send me into a state of indecision) … but it’s also an hour away, ten minutes give or take, and requires driving up a busy freeway, crowded with vehicles and people who, like us, have some place to be. That day, the thought of traffic and parking and people was more overwhelming; the desire to be away from people was greater than our plan to eat momo (or possibly the mixed grill and falafel at our favourite Lebanese restaurant).

Go your own way

We decide to go for a short hike instead. We fill fresh ciabatta filled with smoky ham and Edam cheese; we fill water bottles and packed sunscreen. We drive 60km to Sullivan Rock, a huge granite dome surrounded by jarrah forest, and park in the car park that serves as an access point for the Bibbulmun Track. Sunscreen, hats and boots on, we climb up the granite dome, careful to avoid the bright green moss that is, in parts, already drying into shades of orange and yellow. We scramble over bare rock, noting small cairns of loose rocks, rock pools from recent rains, and the carpet of trees behind us. We tread respectfully on this land of the Whadjuk people, leaving no trace; A is quiet, his stride purposeful, his shoulders lifting, as if he is home, while I follow behind, eyes open for astonishment.

There is so much to be astonished about if you look around with curious eyes and an open heart. 

We eventually reach the edge of the forest and follow the trail through the Marri, Jarrah and Banksia woodland. There was a fire here a few years back and as we make our way uphill, we see signs of its lingering impact. Of change and recovery. Nothing stays the same in nature. For every blackened tree trunk, there is the vivid green of re-sprouting; here, the undergrowth is denser. At one point the trail is lined with red pea flowers I can’t name - the shrub spills onto the track and I push past green and red sprawls. Further into the bush, just off track, we see wildflowers of all shapes and colours: bells, stars, cups. Red, yellow, pink, purple, blue, white.

We emerge from the forest onto more exposed rock; here begins the steep climb to Mt Vincent. We stop to marvel at orchids - spider orchids, blue sun orchids, tiny pink fairy orchids - but it’s also an excuse to catch our breath and gulp cold water. As we climb higher, the forested views are more expansive; it’s beautiful, until we are reminded of the devastation caused by Alcoa, who has been mining bauxite in WA's South West vulnerable Jarrah forests for 60 years. Yes, but there is rehabilitation, they point out. No, it’s not enough, we say, staring at swathes of cleared land in the hazy light. We are not the only ones concerned. These forests are at threat of extinction and it aches to see scarred country from this viewpoint. It frustrates to hear the greenwashing again and again.

We continue hiking to the peak of Mt Vincent, where a breathtaking view of the surrounding bushland awaits. An undulating ocean of trees. We picnic on a granite boulder; we gaze with reverence at this yet untouched landscape. Still safe, for now. To the north is Mt Cuthbert, and in the distance, the Monadnocks; after our picnic is complete, and we are rested, we head towards Mt Cuthbert, picking our way downhill. Then, instead of going on to this peak, we veer off track; I follow A’s lead down a kangaroo track through the bush to the fire trail that will take us back to our car, keeping a careful eye for snakes. I am always a little wary in the bush this time of year; later, when two joggers come up behind us without warning on the fire trail and A startles, I am jumpy enough to leap sideways and squeal, thinking he’d seen a snake. Quite a performance, really. I would like to think I’d be more composed if there was indeed a snake.

As we track through the bush, I marvel at tree hollows carved by fire. I stop to photograph these natural windows, pausing to wonder at the landscape from these scarred frames. They are nesting sites for animals, reptiles, birds; in turn, these creatures bring nutrients to the trees. In Victoria, there is a memorial park and walk for three little boys who wandered from their homes in 1867 and perished in the bush; the bodies of two were found sheltering in a tree hollow. I think about these little boys, and about another lost child who is the inspiration for the novel I haven’t worked on in months. It occurs to me that I have left my character languishing in the bush, that she is waiting for me to help her find her way out.

I’m not yet sure what to do about her.

And so, as I trudge back to the car, tired but happy, I think about windows of opportunities. Of doors closing and opening. Of A’s suggestion that maybe now is the time to go a different way, for us to emphatically and bravely choose a lifestyle that aligns with who we are and how we want to live. To close the one door that is propped ajar and maybe another. Even if it means less money. Even if it means - and this is especially hard for us to let go of - not travelling to as many places overseas as we hoped …

I imagine this as a kind of rewilding, a way to nurture my - our - own ecosystem and shape an even more sustainable and balanced life landscape.

I have been thinking about this ever since. Perhaps if I choose a different way - for it is me facing the work-life decision - I could finish that book, bring my character out of the wilderness. I could write the other book that’s been hovering in my mind for months, not a novel but a story nonetheless, a story about burnout and creative rediscovery. Or maybe, I’ll do neither because there are so many things I want to do.

I don’t know yet. I have time to muse on this life decision.

But I do know this … I am already going my own way.

I have learned so much about myself this past year. And one of the biggest learnings is this - my creative life is not limited to one type of output. My multi-passionate self actively resists this. Until this year, I thought this was a weakness in me. That something was wrong with me because I didn’t want to write every day; I didn’t want to invest all my creative time in one discipline. I didn’t just want to write books. I thought I was letting my readers down because I couldn’t feel the urge to write.

I am unlearning so much about myself. I am called to explore many forms of creativity - writing, painting, sewing, photography, cooking - and I have learned to follow what my gut, my instinct, my soul tells me I need. I have learned that it’s OK to go my own way in my creative life. And in doing so, I am unlocking more and more ways to look creatively through new perspectives - I look at fabric differently, at scraps of paper, at food. I wonder, how can I use this? What can I make from it? I am learning to let go of perfectionism, to accept mistakes as part of learning and growing. To keep on going. And growing.

I have learned that it’s OK to look through windows and see different things, different ways, different perspectives.

As Fleetwood Mac sang, “Go your own way … “

From the archives

If you’re new to La Muse, you might like these posts. This one is about visiting Berlin - I can’t believe it’s a year ago this week that we were discovering this city for the first time.

And this one is the story behind the Couch Choir video above.

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