It was a bad day. I had just shat myself. Not a proper shit you understand, but a wet fart. Thanks to a virulent case of gastro, two hours earlier I had brought up my breakfast in front of ten other trekkers and had continued to bring up bile-flavoured burps all morning. A bastard of a headache pounded down my spine and shook my kidneys. Sweat soaked my T-shirt, but I was periodically experiencing short, uncontrollable shivering attacks. This wouldn’t have been too bad, except I was at the bottom of a steep, 450-metre climb up a gorge and at the beginning of day trekking one of the most physically gruelling jungle treks in the world—Kokoda. But then I heard it. The deep, pulsing wocka-wocka of the rescue helicopter. Except for the rare plane, it’s the only sound of civilisation you hear on the Track, and it invariably signals an evacuation due to injury or sickness. I remember thinking, even if the person on the chopper was injured with a bad sprain, how fortunate they were because that night they’d probably eat good food, and undoubtedly sleep on a soft bed with crisp, clean sheets. Later I’d learn they wouldn’t ever sleep on a bed again, because the 36-year-old female trekker on the chopper was dead. She wouldn’t be the last fatality on the Kokoda Track that week, either. And that chopper would become a very familiar sound indeed.“Let’s rock ‘n’ roll,” Jake, our lead man, cried. It was the signal to start the climb. I swore, spat out some bile, took a swig from the bladder and began to climb.

 

Hard physical climbing and descending is what the Kokoda Track is all about. The Track cuts across the Owen Stanley Range, which is a jagged volcanic line of mountains that runs down the back of PNG like a hideously deformed and pronounced spinal column. While the highest point of the 96km route is 2190 metres, over the course of the trek you’ll rollercoaster up and down, ascending a total of about 5,500 metres, or over two-thirds the height of Mount Everest from sea level.

It’s a challenging journey, mentally, physically and to a degree, emotionally. Young men died in great numbers here. Virtually the entire 96 kilometres saw brutal fighting between Australian and Japanese forces during WWII, much of it done at very close quarters in horrific conditions. The Australians, ill equipped, poorly trained and outnumbered at times six-to-one, put up a fighting withdrawal in an effort to stretch the Japanese supply lines and buy time for reinforcements to arrive. It was a close run thing. The Japanese, with great temerity, steadfastly advanced across the Track to within sight of Port Moresby’s lights, but then, for a variety of reasons, the worm turned and what started as an retreat for the Australians, turned into a bloody-thirsty pursuit of the Japanese back across the Track toward PNG’s Northern shores. It was an awful conflict, peppered with tales of execution, cannibalism, sadism and fanatical combat often only a couple of metres apart.

But in the end the humble Australian force—those “ragged bloody heroes”— had checked the Japanese advance, something the yanks or POMs hadn’t managed to do in the course of the war up to that point. It was the first fight on Australian soil (PNG was then a protectorate of Australia) and it was, as the diggers knew, a fight for the very survival of our nation.

Reading about it, as you should before embarking, evokes immense national pride, especially for an ex serviceman like myself. I wanted to pay tribute to the diggers that fought and died here; and possibly understand a little better of what they had to endure, as do an increasing number of us.

Over the past six years the Track’s popularity has risen sharply, from a mere 100 trekkers in 2001 to over 5,600 in 2008. This ANZAC day trek (2009) would see over 1000 people navigating the Track at one time, some going from Port Moresby to Kokoda airfield and flying out, or others, like our group, doing the reverse.

Most of our small group were there because of the Heart Foundation— the Men’s Fitness chosen charity. Arranged by Inspired Adventures and facilitated by Peregrine, our small party of six people sat around Kokoda airfield lollygagging, making introductions. If Mark Burnett was going to cast Survivor: Kokoda, our little group could have come from central casting: Marie, a chatty 50-year-old aerobics instructor; Shari, an ebullient 24-year-old aspiring naval aviator; Scott, a too-clever-by-half 24-year-old mechanical engineer; Michelle, a perpetually upbeat 34-year-old environmental scientist and single mother of three; Daniel, 34, an accomplished businessman and natural-born salesman; Brendan, a contemplative 29-year-old building project manager and successful business owner; and me, a 45-year-old magazine publisher. We all seemed to get on fine. But then we would. This was day one.

The first day’s walking took us up toward Deniki; up being the operative word. We started at about 250 metres and climbed to 1350 metres over 14km in about seven hours. My heart rate sat between 125 and 140bpm for nearly the entire climb. The Track, I should point out, is not some neatly manicured pathway, with widths and gradients approved by pointy heads in Canberra. It’s a native track often a few centimetres wide, sometimes invisible, that usually follows the most directly navigable route. In parts, it’s almost a hand over hand climb, and in others it’s so knife-edged a slip over the side would send you to your death.

On day one I torched over 14000kJ (3500 Calories) in seven hours and went through eight litres of water without a single piss. When I did piss that night, it was the colour of Passiona. None of our group had any problem physically, but late in the day Marie hurt herself. What had appeared to her as a light strain, caused her leg to swell severely and bruise. She retired early while the rest of the group sat around the campfire.

Much is made of the physical challenge of the Track, but little is written about the social aspects of spending nine days in a lock-step life with people you’ve never met. Studies done on small group dynamics invariably cite work done by phycologist Bruce Tuckman, who coined the four-stage model for effective small group development: forming, storming, norming and performing. In the forming stage, everyone is very pleasant—often superficially so. In the storming stage, different personalities begin to surface and personalities are challenged—conflict is common. Norming is where everyone settles down and begins to accept one another. Performing, obviously, is when the group clicks. That night, the group dynamic shifted. The day’s exertion began to break down social niceties. It appeared we’d jumped from the forming stage to the performing stage. With full bellies, jokes and good natured jibes passed around the campfire easily; stories of wives and kids were traded. Laughter came easily. Then in soft, almost timid voices and with an astonishing harmony our porters sang tribal songs beneath a billion stars. It was a perfect night.

 

While reading up on the Track in the comfort of my home, I was astonished to read that significantly more soldiers on both sides fell victim to disease and injury than from battle. On report claimed that out of 13000 Japanese who died during the campaign, only 5000 fell in battle with the remainder succumbing to starvation and the catalogue of tropical diseases. I thought the report had to be a mistake. How could the jungle disable more men than bullets and bombs?

But the next day on the Track, less than 24 hours into the journey, I learnt how. Marie’s leg was grotesquely swollen and had turned and angry purple and black from thigh to ankle, a sight that shocked even the porters. As we all accessed the injury, another group camping nearby came to tell us they had been stricken by a bout of severe gastroenteritis and had, almost to a man, fallen victim. One lad was severely dehydrated. Now they were calling in the rescue helicopter to evacuate them. One of the porters told us that the year before, an ostensibly fit and healthy 32-year-old man had collapsed and died of heart failure not far from here. No one said anything, but I felt the Track abruptly take on a malevolent character.

The track reaches its highest point at Mount Bellamy and after three days of hard climbing, so did we. At 2190 metres (7,200 feet) it’s cool in the afternoon and cold at night, a strange sensation after the sultry days. By now our group had clicked into a nice harmony and the events of the day became comfortably routine: wake up, eat, walk, lunch, walk, dinner, sleep.

That evening, I felt a dull pain in my bowels. I put it out of my mind and went to sleep, only to wake at four with a dire need to shit. Trying to quickly extricate myself from my sister-in-law’s super-duper, can-sleep-in-Antarctica sleeping bag, while pinching my arse-cheeks together, wasn’t easy. But I managed to make to the hole in the ground that functions as toilet. Stepping outside of the small thatched hut, I threw up.

And so began my bad day. It ended after the climb up the 450-metre gorge at about two that afternoon, with me thanking-God I had brought a course of the antibiotic Ciprofloxacin, which I washed down with tea before sleeping. I awoke that afternoon—still feeling a bit iffy, but on the mend—to hear tales of hardships from other trekkers. Twelve evacuations already, we heard: broken limbs, twisted ankles, dehydration, fevers. As if on cue, the deep wocka-wocka of the helicopter could be heard in the distance.

It must be remembered that this trek is not only in a third-world country, but in a wild, remote and largely inaccessible area of a third-world country. Personal responsibility is the key. You must have your shit together. Medically, physically, mentally and logistically you must be thoroughly prepared. The smallest oversight—like not sterilising your water—can have disastrous consequences.

 

 

The following days we began to pass larger and larger groups as the end of our trek came tantalising close. By now, the whole character of our group’s journey had changed. While the history of the battles remained important, the focus now became the interaction between our group and the porters.

I began to appreciate why the diggers called their native carriers fuzzy-wuzzy angels. By and large, the native Papuans are an extraordinarily good-natured, helpful and kind people. It’s said that you can tell a lot about a man by his handshake. Well, the porters’ handshakes were a soft, gentle caress, the fingers gliding over each: no finger-crushing overhand power-pump. Their words were soothing; their dedication unwavering.

It should be noted here, that different Kokoda tour groups have vastly different philosophies. While our tour company—Peregrine through Inspired Adventures—put emphasis on small trekking groups and the interaction with the Papuan people, other Tour operators focus heavily on the military history; and yet others on the personal achievement or teamwork, along the lines of executive training. Some of these groups take very large numbers, up to 70 people, and have a very militaristic feel about the routines—whistles to wake up; matching clothes, etc. Be sure to choose your group carefully.

After nine days, our trek ended under the arch at Ower’s Corner with lots of back-slapping, photos and attaboys. Back to the hotel, we learnt that yet another person— a 25-year-old Tasmainian man—had died on the Track a couple of days earlier, and a record number of evacuations had been made that year. Cradling the first of many cold, well-deserved beers, we watched A Current Affair make claims of “cowboy operators and shonky tour groups”. While some groups were very large we saw no evidence of anything dodgy.

In the end it’s hard to neglect the fact that the Track is a long, arduous and physically demanding journey in an intensely hostile environment. It pushes the human body and mind to new limits and can break it along the way. It is not easy. Which leads to the last question: would you make it? If you’re reading Men’s Fitness magazine and put in some decent training, chances are you’d crack it no problem. But there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?