Crossing the Ditch Read online

  Gasping for air, Justin replied, “Sorry, mate, my legs kept on collapsing so I had to crawl.”

  At that moment, I knew there was no better person with whom to attempt the kayak crossing from Australia to New Zealand. It was that kind of mental tenacity that we’d need to take on the Tasman.

  3

  Corporate James/Weekend James

  As the intensity of these challenges grew I began to develop a fascination with mountains around the world. I booked myself into a basic mountaineering course over in New Zealand, which was the start of three summers I spent living over there, testing myself and learning valuable lessons.

  Over that period I was lucky not to die. Death didn’t really worry me: “I nearly died yesterday” was a common diary entry at the time. Despite experiencing some nasty falls, rock slides and avalanches that had swept me down a couple of faces, by some grace of God I survived. Some of my fellow climbers were not so fortunate – in one season in Mount Cook National Park, nine mountaineers died. I’ll never forget returning after 10 days in the hills to see four body bags being pulled out of a helicopter. I’d been feeling immortal, but this shook me right out of my complacency.

  I was still at uni during these jaunts and after finishing my Commerce degree I started full-time work at one of the “big four” accounting firms. In that first year I learnt heaps about the corporate world, company accounting and how big business operated. I was working as an auditor – one of a team of accountants who’d examine the financial records of big companies to confirm that what they’d recorded was correct.

  I soon developed a reputation for working efficiently and quickly, but I hated doing longer hours than I thought were reasonable. Often the main purpose of those extra hours seemed to be to make my manager’s utility rates (don’t ask) look better. There were too many fun things to do outside the office to make it my life. Again, it was a matter of work to learn, not just for the money.

  Most fellow employees understood my work ethic, but every now and then I had an audit with a “long hours” manager. On one particular audit, I’d get up and leave at 7pm every night after having worked an 11-hour day, whether or not other people were still slaving away at their desks. In the third week of the audit I had the inevitable conflict with the manager, who said I wasn’t being a team player and that my performance rating was going to be affected. I retaliated that she wasn’t resourcing the audit with enough staff, and that everyone else felt the same way as I did, but didn’t have the balls to stand up to her. We agreed to disagree.

  Those weekends in 2004 were by far the most enjoyable I’d ever had. I began climbing each week with a guy I met at a crag one day, Duncan Hunter (I called him “Yoda”, as he was 18 months older than me and clearly much wiser). As a partnership we gelled right from the start, with our similar attitude and motivation ensuring we’d go to the remotest crags with the loosest rock.

  We’d drive up to the Blue Mountains on a Friday night in Dunc’s old red 1992 Ford Festiva. It was covered in rust, the radio and heater didn’t work, and as soon as we tried to go faster than 80 kilometres per hour (only downhill), the steering wheel would shake violently like a bull trying to buck its rider. That didn’t worry us at all. We’d be bubbling with excitement and we managed this energy by screaming “Wee BANG.!”, which acted like the release on a pressure valve.

  We’d sleep in our bivy bags in shelters around the mountains and cook out of the back of the car. As our climbing partnership grew, so did our appetite for adventure. We began to prepare to visit some of the most awe-inspiring granite big walls in the world.

  Over in California lies Yosemite National Park, where 3000-foot granite cliffs were created millions of years ago by a gradual series of earth upheavals. Today, the valley is respected among climbers as the ultimate big wall climbing destination. It has this reputation because of the stable weather at certain times of the year, the rock is of high quality (it doesn’t break or crumble easily), and there’s a lifetime of climbing to explore. At the centre of the valley is El Capitan, a completely daunting, vertical 3000-foot face with myriad cracks and fissures leading all the way from base to summit. Parties can spend up to 10 days living on the wall – sleeping in hammocks and climbing tiny cracks to the top. We planned a visit to the big walls in Yosemite Valley for later on in that year.

  The stark contrast between the euphoric weekends we were having and my mundane life as an accountant seemed unavoidable. I’d convinced myself that you needed this balance to live a sustainable life. The truth was I was too scared to do anything about it. As the months wore on, the contrast became more and more evident as I began to look around the workplace and see an army of people I didn’t want to be anything like.

  I was spending 50 hours a week with these people and I knew it was shaping my personality. If they’d seemed to enjoy what they did, it would have been a much more positive environment to work in. Instead, most were stuck in a work pattern that they detested and didn’t break because of the fear society had instilled in them: fear of leaving their job, fear of not having a certain income to pay the bills, fear of what those around them might say.

  Dunc and I had spent a good six months training for the Yosemite big walls – it was now time to head over. I’ll never forget sitting in the bus on my way into the valley, and as we rounded “Oh my God Corner” the full view of El Capitan came into view. It looked like one amazing playground that had all the elements we’d ever dreamt of – a rich sense of climbing history, stunning scenery and such a variety of rock routes and treks that you could spend a lifetime only skimming the surface of its potential.

  We started our time in the valley doing some free climbs (that’s when a climber only uses their hands and feet to ascend a cliff, rather than artificial aid), then quickly moved on to some of the smaller big walls – Washington Column and Leaning Tower. Each of these steps was to get us ready for an attempt on the Captain. Staring up at her sheer 3000-foot granite walls from the meadows below, we were terrified. It looked blank and impossible. Only on closer inspection could we make out cracks, fissures and features that linked the ground to the summit in over 32 pitches of climbing (a pitch is essentially one rope length).

  Convinced that we had the technical skill to climb each pitch, we knew that just getting on El Cap would be a great experience, and that if it got too hard or the weather closed in, we could always bail. With this in mind we started our ascent of the Nose. Pitch by pitch flew by and before we knew it we were 600 metres up the face at our second bivouac (a tiny ledge the size of a poker table that we slept on, with our feet dangling over the void), staring at the intimidating crux of the climb – the great roof.

  As Dunc led off, the weather became bitterly cold, and before long we had flakes of snow falling on us. Words from Tom Evans, the resident photographer based down in the meadows, reverberated through our minds: “Just keep going – I hate it when people bail.” We slipped our Gore-Tex jackets on and kept plugging away.

  Living on a giant granite wall for 72 hours was a far cry from burying myself in a three-day audit, but nothing compared to the lessons that we’d learnt – almost without noticing – down in the meadows. We’d gone through the process of acquiring the necessary skills on smaller challenges by climbing 500-metre cliffs and then progressing to the more daunting 1000-metre faces. We’d had a dream which on the surface seemed impossible, but after inspecting the rock face through a telescope we’d seen a line of weaknesses appear, and decided to give it a go. It was only after this experience that I was able to understand the methodology needed to cross the Tasman. It was actually pretty similar to what I’d learnt bushwalking and kayaking – skills I wasn’t picking up as an accountant.

  Returning from the States, I found the widening chasm between “Corporate James” and “Weekend James” more and more difficult to manage. We were pushing our boundaries in the outdoors constantly further and I’d distanced myself from my family and the workplace. Adventure had consu
med me.

  On my final trip to New Zealand I found myself pushing the envelope harder than ever before, soloing dangerous routes and resorting to drinking excessive amounts of alcohol as a means of escaping – evading the fear both of dying in the mountains and being Corporate James. If I kept on this path, I was going to kill myself.

  Although I’d climbed quite recklessly all season, there always seemed to be a little voice beating sense into my head if things got too out of control. Towards the end of the trip, I found myself arguing with my climbing partner Johnny near the summit of Malte Brun. He wanted to push on to the summit, but I was keen on retreating. Two hours past our turnaround time, we descended into an ever-building storm, with the occasional avalanche knocking us off our feet.

  Trying to fight out of the couloir we were in (which was a funnel for both snow and rocks), I took a 30-foot fall onto an ice screw we’d anchored into the slope. I bounced a couple of times down the steep wall covered in jagged rock and ice and thought I was a goner. As I tumbled, I had a horrifying vision of the screw shattering the surrounding ice and both of us tumbling down the face. My fall was arrested by the rope. Lying upside down, struggling to breathe, it felt like I’d cracked a couple of ribs. Slowly, I began to take short desperate breaths and noticed that a gash on my forehead and leg were dyeing the surrounding snow a thick, vivid red.

  Eventually we got down onto the glacier and hid in a crevasse for the evening, as 150-kilometre-per-hour winds ripped through the mountain range. Terrified, we lay in our bivy bags planning our escape back to Mount Cook village the following day. Back in town a couple of days later, feeling incredibly relieved, we drank beer all night until we were kicked out of the pub for leaning over the bar and drinking directly from the tap, Homer Simpson style. It wasn’t the classiest end to one of the scariest experiences of my life…

  Returning from the trip after countless near misses and having pushed my boundaries further than ever before, I remember staring out the plane window and looking down at the sea. I wrote in my diary: “Currently hovering 36,000ft above the Tasman. Can it be done?”

  Twenty-four hours later, I was back at the office, buried in an even-more-terrifying avalanche of paper and figures. For a while, I’d been feeling pretty agitated at the direction my life was taking – another diary entry at the time was that day-to-day life seemed “mundane and pitifully uninspiring. I work a job that I detest.” It seemed to sum things up accurately.

  Despite that, I was still feeling inspired, because almost as soon as my feet hit the tarmac at Sydney Airport, the adventure bug had begun to attack. I found myself becoming obsessed with the Tasman idea. Whenever I thought about the possibility of that expedition – no-one had ever successfully crossed the ocean by kayak – I almost felt the buzz of an atomic caffeine hit. I was convinced it was time; that we had to give the Tasman a proper go. I had to find out if Jonesy was feeling the same way.

  I knew the only person I wanted to do the expedition with was him. We hadn’t seen each other much in the previous three years – while I’d been getting more and more into my climbing, Jonesy had been…well, I wasn’t sure what he’d been doing.

  “Hey, J, what’s been happening?” I tentatively prodded after making the phone call.

  “Aw, not much.”

  “Mate, how’d you like to catch up for dinner?”

  Jonesy was suspicious. “What’s wrong? You never ask me to dinner.”

  “Nothing, mate, nothing is wrong…but there is something I want to talk to you about.”

  “You’re not gay, are you?” he asked.

  “F*** off – of course I’m not gay, you idiot.” (Not that there was anything wrong with that.)

  “Didn’t think you were…just checking.”

  “Okay, let’s do tomorrow night at 7pm.”

  “Done.”

  The first thing I noticed as Justin walked into the pizzeria up at Hornsby the following evening was that he was looking slimmer and fitter than ever before. Normally, his cheeks had a decent puff in them and his veranda over the toy shop would have no trouble resting on the table edge.

  “Mate, what have you been doing?” I asked him. “You’re looking great.”

  “Been kickboxing five days a week and playing footy.”

  As he peered through his glasses, I could tell he’d had a couple of big nights. There were bags under his eyes and his normally marble-white sclera were snotty yellow in colour.

  “Don’t ask,” he muttered, before I had the chance to ask. “Had a coupla massive nights.”

  We occupied ourselves with small talk for a few minutes, but before long Justin said, “Mate, you don’t ask me to come to dinner for no reason…what’s up?”

  There was a short silence, before I gingerly began. “I’ve been thinking, mate…”

  “That’s a first,” Justin jumped in, chuckling.

  “Get stuffed,” I said, half-exasperated, but smiling. “I’m being serious.”

  “Two firsts in one night – you’re doing well.” Justin couldn’t stop laughing at himself. He realised he was hilarious. (Not that anyone else did.)

  The waitress came over and began to take our orders. As she finished reading the evening’s specials, Justin’s eyes lit up. “So what’s your name?” he asked in a deep voice, staring directly upwards into her eyes.

  “Libby,” she replied shyly, giving him a slight smile out of the side of her mouth.

  “Libby, I’m Justin, pleased to meet you,” he blurted confidently. Then shuffling his seat so he wasn’t straining his neck as much, he began chatting to her.

  He was much more confident than I’d ever seen him. All I wanted to do was talk about the Tasman and he seemed more interested in getting laid.

  “Sorry to be rude…” Jonesy was getting into his stride now. “This is my friend Cas – we’re having dinner tonight. He’s about to tell me that he’s coming out of the closet.”

  I didn’t like where this was going, but before I had time to retaliate, Justin thought he needed to clarify. “That’s right…he’s gay!”

  I sat, thinking how well he’d positioned himself here. Perfect Game. Textbook. I was boxed out and retaliation would have been childish. (But enjoyable.) I sat there knowing that he’d won the battle, but not the war…

  They kept chatting, with Libby giggling constantly. Eventually, she took our orders and headed back to the kitchen. As she walked away I congratulated Jonesy on a well-played game, but reminded him that she looked barely 16.

  Shrugging his shoulders and laughing, he replied half-jokingly, “So?”

  He’d changed a lot since we’d last spent some decent time together, and I was battling to pierce through the new facade and see the Justin I remembered – which had probably been those three years earlier on the Murray.

  “Back to what I was talking about…” I said in a slightly agitated tone.

  “Oh yeah, that.”

  “Mate, enough beating round the bush. Remember what we talked about on the Murray?” I asked, fiddling with a salt shaker.

  I wasn’t sure whether Justin could see it coming. “We talked about heaps of stuff, but I think I know where you’re going with this,” he replied.

  “How’d you like to paddle to New Zealand in a kayak?”

  The words shot through his facade like a bullet and his face changed instantly.

  He stared blankly at me and digested what I’d said. The cat was out of the bag. I sat there nervously, not saying anything. I was totally pumped about the Tasman trip and I was worried he was going to dismiss it as just another stupid idea. I didn’t want to do the crossing solo – and I didn’t want to do it with anyone else.

  Libby brought our garlic bread and a couple of beers to the table. This time, Justin didn’t even notice her. She must have felt a little perturbed by this abrupt shift in interest, but I’m sure she could tell we were discussing something important.

  Finally, Jonesy broke the silence. “Are you serious, you cra
zy bastard?”

  “Dead serious.”

  Noticing that he was a little shocked at this unsubtle approach, I retracted a little. “There won’t be a better time in our lives to give it a go. I know you want to have a family in a few years – we’ve got time now. Even if we never get out there and do it because it turns out to be impossible, let’s start prodding and start to work out if it is possible.”

  “How are you thinking we go about it?” he asked. He was still listening, so that was good.

  “The first thing is for us to put it all out there by asking all the questions that we’ve got.”

  We sat staring at each other like two fighters about to get into the ring. But instead of a referee separating us, there was a super supreme pizza with extra meat (and chilli). As we attacked each slice, we discussed the feasibility of kayaking across the Tasman. Sweat poured off our brows from the chilli, and our hands were clammy – not from the pizza, but from the torrent of scepticism that was flooding our conversation. Surely, it was impossible. It took me back to how I’d felt a couple of years earlier staring up at the 3000-foot vertical cliff-face of El Capitan. The blank walls had revealed – eventually – a series of cracks that cleared a path from the base to the summit. But the Tasman looked even more inaccessible.

  Looking down at the butcher’s paper on the table, we signalled for Libby to come over. One of her fellow waitresses, who’d obviously seen Justin flirting with her earlier, poked her in the ribs and they both started giggling. Nervously looking everywhere but at Jonesy, she walked towards us.

  “Libby, would you mind if we borrow your pen?” Justin asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked away, struggling to understand what was going on, as I began scribbling violently on the paper tablecloth. How would we sleep? What would we do with sharks? Container ships? Storms? Excitement flushed through our veins, and before long we were covering the cloth with what seemed like an infinite number of questions. But there were no answers. The closest either of us had ever been to the ocean was a one-day jaunt in a yacht when I was 13.