Day 10 - Ofi Creek > Ioribaiwa Ridge > Imita Ridge > Goldie River

"Ralph!" "Raallpphh!" "RRRAAALLLPPPHHH!!!"

One o'clock in the morning, and Paul is calling for his mate Ralph. Gee I wish Ralph would turn up.

Then, through my sleeping stupor, I realise it is something a bit more serious. So I get up to make sure Paul is OK. Peter has beaten me there, and is giving Paul a tablet to help settle the stomach. One of the camp dogs has turned up, and as quick as a flash has eaten everything that Paul provided. So we nickname the dog Ralph. It seems appropriate at the time. And the best part is that there is nothing left for us to clean up!

So, I went back to bed, and listened on and off to Paul calling for his mate for the rest of the night. Poor bugger. Today is going to be a big day - I hope he is ok.

Breakfast was as usual, although Paul had very little. He looked a little better than he did last night, and at least he had stopped vomiting. The plan for the day was to follow the original wartime track up Ioribaiwa Ridge. This is a really difficult climb, as it is very rarely walked. We needed a knifeman to cut a path, and the spademan to cut steps - though he didn't do too much of that. Being a difficult climb, plus a much longer track than the "Kokoda Highway" (the tourist track), Paul and some porters were sent on the tourist track to make things a bit easier for him.

Just as well too. The original track is hardly a track at all. Climbing a near vertical climb, with no steps cut in, with loose soil slipping from under the boot with every step made for a precarious climb. Another climb with nothing to hang on to, and a slip meant a hundred metre fall. I probably should have been worried, but was just to focused on getting to the top to think or worry about anything else. It was no wonder we were sweating by the time we got to the top.

This was the last ridge that the Japanese made it to. It is said that they could see the lights of Port Moresby from here - but looking from the top, that would have been impossible. Perhaps the glow of the searchlights at the airport, but that would be about it. As a result of it being the closest the Japs got to Port Moresby, with them having dug in here, there was a heap of Japanese trenches/spider holes to look at. It was a great adventure, and well worth getting off the beaten track to see stuff much as it was when the Japs quietly "Advanced to the rear", and started quietly pulling back to the North East Coast.

Once we got to the top, we cut across the ridgeline, and really had to cut our way through the undergrowth to get back to the main track. We had organised to meet Paul at the top, but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was another memorial to a fallen trekker - a super fit police officer who had died of dehydration on day 1 of his trek. We sent one of the boys back down the track to see if Paul had been held up - but no - he must have been doing well and just kept on walking!

Sure enough, as we walked down the other side of Ioribaiwa Ridge to new Ioribaiwa Village, there was Paul sitting down enjoying the view. He was going well, despite feeling a bit weak from the bug, and was keen to keep moving. So were we - there was no shade in the village, and the sun was beating down on us. After the difficult morning climb, we were all a little hot and tired, and keen to get to the morning tea spot at the bottom. The day before yesterday I had drunk 8 litres of water, and it looked like today would be the same.

We arrived at the creek at the bottom where we had organised for morning tea - but there were no boys to be seen. Twice in one day things had gone buggaup! But, get over it, and get on with it. So we sat down and had a muesli bar and a well deserved rest. Soon after, Dominic (the 2IC cook) turned up. Apparently the locals had said the water here was no good to drink, so they had pushed on another 30 minutes to a place where a fresh creek joined this creek from the side. It was a quick pace, and we were all glad for another rest and cup of tea/coffee/milo when we got there.

From morning tea, it was a trip along the creek to lunch. Not on a track beside the creek, but rock hopping along the creek bed, crossing the creek about 9 times. It was hard work, and again Warren was setting a cracking pace, with Sam hot on his heels. I was sweating bucket loads with the sun on my back, and working hard to keep up - keeping balance, not able to use the trekking poles as much, hopping from rock to rock with a 16kg backpack on, and finding it tough - even on the flat.

So I've got to say, I was very happy to see the lunch spot on the side of the creek. Peter immediately ripped his clothes off and jumped into the creek. I didn't have the energy. I just wanted to sit down, have a rest, something to eat and relax for a while. Catherine was worse. She had been shitty all morning, and looked like she was struggling.

Paul had done really well for someone who was crook. His mate Ralph had followed us (Ralph's owner was travelling with us on his way to Port Moresby), and was sniffing around Paul at lunchtime. Unfortunately for Ralph, Paul again only had a bite to eat in an attempt to quiet his stomach. Catherine too only had a little. Unlike me, who made a pig of myself. In fact, I felt a bit ill I had eaten that much. So when we were told we were moving out in 10 minutes, I wasn't very happy.

Paul headed off with his porter straight away, while we spent the next 10 minutes preparing for what promised to be an even longer and steeper climb than the one this morning. I was still hot, I was over-full, and not feeling like a big climb. Which led to my second dummy spit of the trip.

"Don't let Sam walk behind Warren" I snapped. "He walks so close that Warren has to speed up so he doesn't get trampled." It wasn't deserved. Although Sam did have a habit of treading on the heels of the people in front (Catherine had had a dummy spit about it this morning), he didn't need me to tell him to ease off.

Peter suggested that Sam head off in front of Warren the Spademan, with myself, Alex and Catherine following. That was all Sam needed, and he was off to catch up with Paul. Peter followed him, while our little group started trudging up the hill.

The heat was oppressive, the humidity was energy sapping, and the steepness of the hill was soul destroying. After about ten minutes Warren stopped and turned around to see how we were getting on. Alex and Catherine were about 20 metres behind Warren and I.

"Is she ok?" Warren asked me.

"I don't know" I said. "She didn't have much to eat at lunch."

"Hmm" said Warren. "You walk ahead. I go back and see."

So, with 50 more minutes of walking to get to the top, it was just me and the hill. I started walking, thinking to myself that I wouldn't mind catching up to Paul, Sam and Paul's porter Barry, so I had someone to pace myself with. So I tried to up my pace. Ten minutes later I was shattered. The sound of my heartbeat was pounding in my ears, my pulse was racing at 190bpm, I was breathing hard, and sweating fiercely. I had to stop for a breather. I gave myself a minute, then headed off again. Every step took immense concentration. Every breath seemed to be strangled half way down. I was having trouble sipping water. I was exhausted.

"Keep moving feet" I said to myself, repeating it over and over.
"Little steps"
"Keep moving feet"
"Little steps"
"Keep moving feet".

It was like mantra in the deep recesses of my mind that kept me going. Then, up ahead, I saw Paul, Sam and Barry, stopped for a breather. My spirits soared. I was getting there! Then they moved off, and I was still 20 metres behind. I stopped for a breather, then went on with renewed energy. But my feet were so slow. My breathing so laboured. I could not believe how hard this was.

"What's wrong with me!" I screamed silently at myself. "I have to pick up the pace!"

Then, up ahead, Paul, Sam and Barry again - this time closer. I stopped where they had been, recharging for another assault. Then, behind me, Warren, Alex and Catherine.

"How have they caught up!" I screamed at myself, and headed up the hill again, this time with renewed vigour.

Then, up ahead, I heard cheering, clapping, whooping. Then words of encouragement for Paul and Sam. I must have been close! I upped my effort again, and within two minutes I could see the boys at the top of Imita Ridge - sitting in the shade. Then they started cheering for me - whooping, hollering and yelling encouragement. It was the best moment of the whole trip! I redoubled my efforts, and strode the last 20 metres to the crest of the ridge, the whole time with them yelling. It was another one of those moving, amazing moments.

"Where's the next hill?!" I yelled back at them. "C'mon - bring it on!!" I continued in a kind of delirious outburst of relief, pride and exhaustion.

I dropped down in the shade, and drank some water, amazed at Paul's achievement to get to the top in his condition. I struggled - how the hell did he do it? Then, within five minutes, Warren, Alex and Catherine appeared.

The cheering and hollering started again, this time with me joining in. They made it to the top, and collapsed on the ground, looking as shattered as I felt. They didn't say a thing - just looked away from the group, motionless...

As each of the porters arrived at the top, the ovation was repeated. Every person who made it to the top was made to feel special. Another example of great leadership, and camaraderie that had been developed during the trip.

Then, out of nowhere, from the other direction, appeared 4 guys running up the hill! They got to the top, slapping each other on the back, and lit a cigarette! It turned out they were army combat engineers (in PNG on exercises, from the CER (Combat Engineer Regiment), part of the 2nd RAR), and had just run in from Owers corner in three hours. Half a dozen others joined them over the next ten minutes, none of them with enough water.

We started walking down the other side, now in the shade, with a sense of achievement. We were just two hours away from our last nights camp at Goldie River - and we were all looking forward to jumping in the river for a wash and cool down. As we went, the army guys went past us, on their way back to Owers Corner. The last one (accompanied by a mate) was staggering and stumbling. He was coherent, but not in good shape. We had seen an army doctor, and this guys mate was very interested to find out where the doctor was. I hope they made it out ok. Interestingly, the group had two security guys from the PNG Army accompanying them with fully loaded M16's...

We made Goldie River by 3:00PM. Alex and Catherine dropped their packs, and just hugged each other for about two minutes - not a word was spoken.

Peter then suggested that with Owers Corner only 45 minutes walk away, we could walk out tonight if we wanted. All agreed it would be best to camp, and present the porters with a token of our appreciation, rather than rushing things to get out tonight. Besides, we were all looking forward to the river, and our last night on the track.

Then Sonny (Boskuk) rushed up to us all agitated. Apparently, Ralph had eaten all the breakfast cereal, as well as most of the rice the boys were going to have for dinner tonight! Bloody Ralph! Get over it. Get on with it. There's always a way. So, the boys were to share our dinner, plus have the spaghetti and baked beans that we were to have for breakfast. We would have a normal dinner, and our own muesli bars for breakfast. We would eat when we got to Sogeri Lodge if need be. So, no problem. All sorted.

So, for the last time. Unpack. Down to the river with my soap and tiny towel. Jump in clothes and all. Slowly undress, and wash each garment as I take it off. Throw it on the bank. Take off the next thing, wash it, throw it on the bank. All the others did the same.

I tried to walk up the bank to the campsite, and my knee was in screaming agony. It was again swollen, and again I couldn't bend it or straighten it. I struggled up the bank fighting back the tears, and collapsed at the table with a cup of coffee.

Everyone had mellowed - and Alex and Catherine were both talking again. We had a small dinner, then gathered around the campfire to present the porters with a small gratuity from the group. The individuals who had personal porters then presented them with a further gratuity. Alex stood up, and despite not having a personal porter, gave a gift to Warren for his assistance on the trek to both he and Catherine. It was a generous gesture, and one that told us all the impact Warren had had on our couple from Perth. There were sad faces with the knowledge that the adventure was almost over, and in all likelihood, we wouldn't see any of these people ever again...

We headed to bed at around 8PM. I knew that I had left my sweat rag down by the river, but I physically couldn't walk down and back up again to get it - my knee just won't let me. Hopefully a couple of Nurofen Plus will fix it overnight, and the sweatrag might still be there in the morning. A big day - no, a huge day was over, and so too was the trip - almost.

Day 6 - Templeton's Crossing #2 > Kokoda Gap > Big Myola > Bomber Camp

I woke last night at 1:00AM - really hot. Then I drifted off to sleep again, but had a series of the most bizarre dreams, which kept me waking and drifting until the alarm went off at 5:15AM. I wasn't going to wait for the 5:30 cooee call, and risk holding people up.

On waking, my stomach was really not right. I packed quickly, got dressed into my sweaty but dry clothes, put some more tape on my foot (this time on the heel which was starting to show signs of a hot spot), and got out of my tent. Then it hit me. I HAD to go to the loo - and quickly. Now, what happened in the loo wasn't pretty. If you don't want to read about how a bloke with the squirts deals with going to a loo which is just a 10cm x 30cm hole in the ground, then skip the next paragraph...

There is something not so glamorous about having the runs when you are wearing skins.
You rush to the dunny - which you discover is a hole in the ground about 10cm x 30cm.
Taking careful aim, hoping the poop doesn't run down your legs into your skins, you relax your butt cheeks.
Nothing happens.
So you give a little squeeze.
The toilet cubicle only has three sides, and sits among 4 others, close together.
Your bum is pointing towards the door.
Just as you squeeze, one of the porters comes looking for a vacant loo - and is staring straight at your straining behind.
Then, all hell breaks loose, as the pent up runs are released.
You miss the hole by about a metre, and almost splash the porters bare feet.
But the only way you know he is there is because of the shout of terror you hear as you just miss him.
You don't care.
The blessed release of letting go.
You then re-aim the constant stream, trying to hit the hole.
You overcorrect, and just miss your skins and your only pair of pants.
As the stream recedes, you are careful to lift your butt that little bit higher, hoping against all odds that those last few drops don't land in your waiting pants.
You look down. Then realise.....
It's finished. But it takes 20 wipes to get your butt clean - and you only brought one roll of dunny paper with you.
You hope against hope that this doesn't continue for another day...

After the blessed relief of the loo, breakfast went down a treat. I was feeling quite a bit better, which was good, because at the briefing we discovered that today we would be climbing to the highest point on the track - through the Kokoda Gap and past Mt Bellamy.

So, no surprises, it was uphill, then uphill, and uphill some more. We started the day at an elevation of 5,800 feet, and climbed to 7,300 feet before lunch. It actually wasn't too bad. I was tired, but not exhausted. I wasn't sore at all. And my tummy, though still churning a little, was much better than it had been for the last couple of days. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said of Sam. He was really suffering all morning, and at lunch only had a tiny serving. He looked a little pale as well. Alex too has started looking a little sad, and has been making some small comments that make me wonder if he is finding the going a little harder. His stomach has been churning like mine for a couple of days. And Catherine is all bright a chirpy, but I get the feeling she is putting it on a little so that she doesn't bring the group down. Paul, the oldest of the group, is going like a champion. Though he doesn't ever look the best in the mornings.

Anyway, I was feeling ok at lunch on the edge of Big Myola. Even better when we were told we could leave the packs where they were while we walked across the "lake" to Myola Guesthouse, then on to have a look at a crashed American P40 Kittyhawk fighter. Sam was feeling pretty crook, so instead of the excursion, he went with some of the porters on to the nights camp at Bomber Camp.

The lake bed of Big Myola (or Myola 1 as it is sometimes called) is on old volcanic crater. It is funny the way that the jungle grows down to a certain level on the edge, then just stops, and is replaced by grasses and reeds. It had been raining all day, and as a result the lake bed was a little wet. By that I mean that we sunk to our ankles in stinking, black, slimy mud with every step we took. I was happy to have brought the ankle gaiters with me - I would have hated to see inside my boots otherwise.

We finally got to the other side of the lake, and arrived at Myola Guesthouse. One of the buildings had recently burnt down. We were told that it was accidentally burnt down by the porters from Adventure Kokoda. Oops. We are also told here that they were expecting us to camp there for the night. Apparently our schedule was different to what Peter had been given. Bugger. They even had a 44 gallon drum of water heating for a shower - which would have been great after a day of walking in the rain! Instead, Peter paid them the camp fees for the night, and we went on to see the plane.

It was a huge engine, with props buried in the dirt. 6 machine guns were still visible - some with live ammo still ready to fire. The rest of it was a shredded mess - you can even still see pieces of the shattered perspex windshield lying amongst the wreckage...

After the fighter, we headed back across the lake. It was getting late, but thankfully the rain was easing. However, we picked up the pace and got back to the edge of the lake where our packs and porters were and had a quick afternoon tea. Then put the wet, muddy pack back on, and headed off to Bomber Camp, which we got to at 5:10PM in the rain.

With the mud everywhere, I decided that I might as well have a wash in the creek, and wash out the clothes. The black, clinging mud was nearly impossible to get out of the clothes - I stood in the creek for almost 30 minutes trying to get the clothes and myself clean. It didn't help when the boys told us to be careful, as the water was polluted by toilets upstream. Ah well - better to wash in pooey water than have it in your pants I suppose.

Bomber Camp itself was really beautiful. There were all sorts of flowers planted expertly, as though the place had been designed by an award winning garden designer from Sydney. And, thankfully, the pit toilets had the green barrels for seats - I never thought I'd be so happy to see them!

As soon as I finished washing in the fast fading light, the rain stopped. But, with the amount of rain during the day, there wasn't a lot of wood, so there was no chance of getting the clothes remotely dry. Sam went to bed before 6:00PM, without dinner. By 7:00, we heard a terrible heaving sound coming from inside his tent. Yep, he had a big spew. Then a couple more for good measure. Paul rushed to his aid. We were pleased to hear that Sam had a plastic bag ready, so the inside of his tent didn't look like this mornings loo. Sam got up with a bit more colour, saying that he now felt much better. Hope he still is in the morning!

We were all in bed by 8:00, once again listening to the sound of rain on the tent. It seems a bit colder tonight, so I've done the hood up a bit - will put on the thermals during the night if I need to.