The cleansing power of rain

I sit at my desk and stare at the screen. There’s sham in my work, some days there are just not enough words to wrap around the things that need to be voiced. Every day I refresh the Tidal River weather forecast on my phone and grimace at the ever increasing chance and amount of rain. I resign myself to afternoons in the van listening to the rain and smelling the damp, waving across to the companions sheltering in their own camper on the neighbouring site.

In the drudgery  of every day she sits at her desk and creates spreadsheets, weaves one number into another total and matches them to people and pay rates and budget lines. Are you a fair weather hiker? she asks as we pull our hats closer over our foreheads and zip our coats up to our chins. She’s not competitive and neither am I… so we are going to be out on the trails even if it pours. We pack more than double the usual number of clothes to wear expecting bags of muddy, wet gear to bring home. I bring extra merino socks and make sure I have layers of warm to change into when we return to camp, shower in luxurious hot water and sink into our camp chairs with the triumph due Olympic medallists.

This one toils to make the ragged edges of broken dreams meet. It tires his soul but here our enthusiasm is infectious and somewhat compulsive and so the reluctant ones lace up their boots and join us for an introductory evening stroll beside the river and along the pristine beach. This is the moment, of course this is when it happens, the rain comes down. She and I giggle and our stride does not falter. I glance back at them only once and see them shoulder to shoulder, heads down. I’m glad their voices are lost to the wind. I can pretend they’re stoically accepting the weather for what it is.

He deals in what happens after dreams are broken and lives are interrupted and carries his own wishes for rest and for peace and for calm. I hated that beach walk he tells me straight. I hated the rain, I hated the sand, I hated the wind. I hated it all. I appreciate his honesty. Still, in the morning he gazes at the clearer skies and asks how far we are going. Will there be sand? I’m adamant that there will not and am impressed when he pulls his beanie down tightly over his forehead and follows us onto the path. The four of us clamber up the slippery rock on the headland and gaze onto Bass Strait and all four of us are exhilarated. It’s incredible he says and that is more than enough. 

She and I leave them basking in the satisfaction of having hiked. We make sure they’ve taken ibuprofen for the aches. Now, now we can flock like the Flamingos we are. We’re not fast and we’re not fit but we have an endurance that takes us further. We take regular oxygen breaks so no hill is too tall or too steep. Stride longer when the trail allows; shorter, careful steps in the slippery leaf matter that tests our birdlike balance.The wind is ever so fresh in the dim rainforest but I am in a T-shirt, bare arms, welcoming the crisp bite of the wind on my skin. This is the air that we can breathe all the way to the bottom of our lungs. This is the air that we crave when we are in our real lives behind desks. It does make us cough a bit.

We know we are near the end of our hiking energy when our thoughts turn. I plan the clothes I will put on after my shower. I review the pantry and wonder if he has prepared snacks. I hear my stomach rumble and feel a twinge in my right knee. She coughs.

We walk through families wrapped in down jackets and woollen beanies and gumboots, mothers who look askance at our bare skin and flushed cheeks. No matter how tired we are this is when we walk tall and strong and our smiles are wide.

The shower IS as hot as I dreamed it would be and my tracksuits pants are soft and my chair is welcoming. He puts a drink in my hand and they pull their chairs under our awning and the talk bumbles across topics, falls silent, winds comfortably through then evening.

And there are wombats.

The real rain is forecast for Sunday but I’m sure we can see blue sky in the dawning cloud cover. We have a third hike to do and we are not competitive at all 🫣. She and I have our boots laced and backpacks on. We look expectantly at themselves. Nope says one. She nods and sends him our intended route for safety. I glance at himself. I’m not a fair weather camper he tells me but it seems I’m a fair weather hiker. He wraps himself up in a quilt and sinks back into the shelter of his hoody apologetically. 

There are children flying kites on the beach. Our voices are swallowed by the wind and so we talk to ourselves, imagine the crunch sound of our steps on the firm sand, point wordlessly at the magnificent Pacific gulls. The silence when we step into the ti trees along the path is like a slap. Our legs are fatigued and we are grateful for the gentle incline that requires purpose and determination but no heroic feats of athleticism. Who am I kidding, those feats haven’t been available to me for decades now! Still, I’m trudging more than striding but the air tastes like life itself and we are breathing it deep, gulping it in as if we can stockpile some for later use at the desk. Sometimes the hike is about the trail. At others it’s all about the moment. This is one of those hikes.

We clamber out on a broad expanse of rock overlooking the strait. The waves boom when they crash onto the rocks at the foot of our cliff. Here we pull out our sit pads and settle onto the most comfortable hiking seats imaginable. Here we boil water and make instant cuppas that are more satisfying than anything a barista ever served me. Here we squint at the water and imagine a seal or a dolphin might appear. Maybe. If we just keep watching…