Walking to the Moon

Walking to the Moon by Kate Cole-Adams Page B

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Authors: Kate Cole-Adams
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scoreboard, through the gap in the wire fence and up the incline towards the pine trees.
    â€˜I’m going to go for a bushwalk,’ I told Anna, that last time I saw her, before I left the nursing home for good. ‘Just part of the way up the mountain. It’ll only take a couple of days.’
    â€˜Jess, did you hear what I said?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    It is hard walking with the pack on my back. Inside is a two-man tent—‘two-person; can’t be sexist,’ said the guy at the camping shop, hoping to be funny—a small cooker, one change of clothes, enough food for two days I hope; a map, a torch. Even not quite full, it digs into my hips and drags at my shoulders. I stop at the ridge, readjust my shoulder straps, swig from my water bottle. When I reach the path at the top, I pause again and look down to my left towards the grove of trees where I usually walk.
    I think about taking off my pack and hurrying down to—to do what? Touch them. Say goodbye. Instead I pull out the map from my pouch and take the narrower path veering to the right that leads up into the mountains. I plan as I walk, matching my thoughts with the rhythm of my boots. Straight on for a couple of kilometres, then hook on to the road for a bit, and then back into the bush and the main track up the mountain. The air is cool and astringent, twisting through the tops of the eucalypts. Try for maybe twenty kilometres today, maybe a little less. Make sure I’ve got plenty of time to set up the tent, light a fire, cook some soup before dark. My stomach tightens a little at the thought of the dark, so I think about the torch I bought yesterday and the new set of batteries, and of the women’s self-defence course I never finished and Hil trying to teach me karate on Bondi Beach, and of the concrete and iron balustrade above the middle of the beach where my husband and I used to watch dolphins riding the waves with the surfers.
    I trip on a tree root and stagger, the backpack tipping me abruptly off balance. I grab a low branch for support, then pull myself up and start to take the pack off, my heart jittery with adrenaline, my fingers shaking on the clip. For the first time in months I feel a rush of craving for a cigarette. I am only a kilometre or so from the nursing home, but it feels further. Irrevocable. I breathe deeply and try to feel inside for that calm, cocooned self, the self I have grown to trust. An anxious wind skitters through the canopy, bending the branches back upon themselves, sending a twig scraping through the foliage to my feet.
    Viv has given me two apples from her garden at home. I pull one from the side pocket of the pack, and crouch on a low lichen-splattered rock to eat it. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said. Not smiling. ‘I don’t want to see you back here.’ The flesh is tart and sweet. I put the core in my bag, thinking of Hil, feeling better. The map shows a campsite about six hours’ walk away, I estimate, taking it slowly up the mountain track. That might do.
    â€˜Have you thought,’ said Anna, ‘about what you will do when you leave here?’
    â€˜Not really. I might stay with my aunt, Hil.’
    â€˜What about your husband?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    The map is in the front pocket of the backpack, along with a small packet of tissues I bought at the chemist and some barley sugars for energy. The bloke at the camping shop gave me the map. ‘You won’t need it,’ he said, when I asked. ‘Just follow the path.’ But I said no, I liked to know where I was going.
    â€˜Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Cheers. On the house.’
    I wanted to buy a drink flask too, but I didn’t want him to think I expected that for free. And it seemed a good time to leave, our encounter rounded with a gift and cheers. I’d get bottled water from the milk bar. Cheaper.
    â€˜You travelling alone?’ he

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