Gerry Jacobson

Narrow Road to a Far Suburb

“We are the Pilgrims, master, we shall go
Always a little further;”
– J.E. Flecker

The Nordic walking poles are a gift: that I may walk a little faster into that next decade. But Covid-19 comes upon us. We have months of lockdown and isolation; eat too much chocolate and watch too much TV.

sickness and death
and unemployment …
our world
down on its knees
to a tiny unseeable

As restrictions ease, I meet a group of walkers who can’t travel to Europe for the Camino de Santiago. We substitute a Canberra Camino, and walk the ACT ¹ Centenary Trail, about 150km, in fifteen-morning stages.

walking the track
winding around
the border
circling the outskirts
of our suburban lives

We begin on the first day of spring, following the Trail from Parliament House through the ceremonial centre of Canberra. We pause at the Aboriginal Tent Embassy for a traditional smoking ceremony, a welcome to ‘country’ by the elders. Then we cross Kings Bridge and head northwards.

a street
of war memorials …
Anzac Parade
with plenty of space
for wars yet to come

Suddenly I’m disorientated, lost. There’s a high fence surrounding an empty space where the old BMR² Building should be. I worked there for 25 years. A sign says: “Towards a new chapter in our town’s history”.
 
We follow the Mt Ainslie-Mt Majura ridge through box woodland. Brass plaques here memorialise the battles in Papua New Guinea in the Second World War.  Among the Aussie blokes fighting Japanese, was Lew Marshall, my late father-in-law.

sunrise …
we will remember
Kokoda …
how young men sweated
and soiled themselves

This cloudy day, deep purple Hardenbergia brightens the undergrowth. We descend into another suburb. A shiny new sign promotes the Majura Nature Reserve. It’s tagged: “F— Ya Life!” Is this the edge of civilisation?

by the houses
of Hackett
I lie down and weep
for graffiti
in a nature reserve

High on Mt Majura I pause, sip water, listen to the sough of the wind. Looking over the ridge I can see our silent airport.  I miss my Stockholm grandchildren. On this section of track, there are lots of walkers, cyclists, and runners. It’s a weekday morning but so many people are unemployed or working from home.

coffee
at the bus interchange …
this pilgrim
hangs suspended
between two worlds

We walk on through the Goorooyarroo and Mulligan’s Flat nature reserves: a brave attempt to restore endangered native animals to a degraded patch of box woodland. High fences keep out foxes and cats.

bettongs and quolls
all snug in their burrows
and we
apex predators
are just passing by 

The rural circuit around the northern tip of the ACT is done in two ‘out and back’ days returning to parked cars.

covid-safe …
the wind blows through
open car windows
and our conversation
is heavily masked

The walking track is delicious through the eucalypt forest. We have some steep climbs and descents, and some tree-hugging.

the sun shines
on grassland and woodland
shingle backs awake
a glorious summer
lies before youse3

From One Tree Hill, we look across to where we’ve come from. Then we spy the gleaming towers of Belconnen, satellite town, ahead. From Hall village, the trail is flat and suburban, mainly along bike paths. It’s a warm day and I can’t keep up with the fast pace of the group. I sink into the café that ends this section, gulping water and then a coffee.

plodding
the bike paths of Belco
mad pilgrims
in the midday sun…
I wish I were a racing bike

It’s warm for the spring equinox. Like Falstaff, I ‘sweat to death and lard the lean earth’ as I walk over the Gossan Hill nature reserve, eyes glued to the rock and trying to remember how gossan forms. Some sort of earth magic. It rains for a million years and sulfide leaches away leaving oxides. What treasure beneath this iron cap?

my back
against a tree
warm breeze on my skin
I drain my water bottle
and scribble tanka

The squawk of cockatoos welcomes us to the woodland of Black Mountain. I notice the first orchids of the season. We follow the Trail through the Aranda frost hollow and a cork oak plantation to the Canberra Arboretum for a picnic with raindrops. That’s the ninth daily stage, 12km or so. Saying goodbye to the group here, I head down for the lake and my path home to Yarralumla but get boxed up in a complex of freeways. Bunyan’s hymn comes into my head: “There’s no discouragement/ shall make him once relent/ his first avowed intent/ to be a pilgrim.” I despair for a while then backtrack and slowly work it out.

walking off
into the suburbs
confused
where oh where
is this pilgrim’s Way

Our world approaches one million deaths from Covid-19. Melbourne has locked down again for a second wave, but in Canberra, we’ve had no cases for a couple of months, and there is cautious optimism.  Leaving the Arboretum, I hug a baby boab tree, native to the Kimberley. Will it live 2000 years? Then we follow the Molonglo River on footpaths into the new suburbs of Wright and Coombs; named for the late Judith Wright (poet) and H.C. Coombs (economist), lovers side by side forever. In this remote corner of the universe, I find a bus to take me home for a rest day before Stage 11.

The ACT Bushfire Memorial remembers the great fires of 2003. From here we climb up to the grassy Cooleman Ridge. It’s cold and blowy this day, and I can see snow squalls in the Brindabella Ranges. A steep descent off Mt Arawang takes us back into the suburbs. At the gate, I’m thrilled to be presented with the scallop shell, a symbol of the pilgrim. We have walked 100km of our Camino.

above
our suburban world
the sun shines
but there’s blizzard and fog
in the distant ranges

I’m getting fitter,  but so is the rest of the group. We walk up the Murrumbidgee valley. I sing John Warner’s song about the river:  ‘We who walk here for a little while.’  It’s raining and the party is spread out; no catch-up stops.  At the end, I’m cold and wet and need to go somewhere warm like a café. I’m aware some of my friends are still out there. But I barely have the energy to look after myself.

I store
the lashing rain
in my memory
I hear the river
rushing down below

School holidays begin. Several members of our walking group are parents, and so a few children join us.  I miss my Sydney grandchildren, hope to see them soon, perhaps go to the mountains with them. There’s still inertia about travel; I haven’t been out of town for six months. Stage 13 is a flat stretch of Centenary Trail across the south of Tuggeranong. It’s a lovely spring day and our land is green.

pilgrims
carry their stones
of grief and regret
but some vagrant children
will lighten their load

Now we head northwards to complete the circuit around the ACT. It’s a steep climb up to the Isaacs ridge and then through old pine plantations. Ah, mushrooms! The children create a wild holiday atmosphere.  After today’s walk, we’re in a café, and something triggers the owner’s wrath. He dumps on us. I feel slightly detached, but in his voice, I hear the anger and frustration of a million small business owners. The Shadow emerges.

café owner
berates us, chides us
weary pilgrims
taking on the sins
of the world

The last stage is along the Red Hill ridge, my local hill walk. Then down to Parliament House.

in the gardens
a thousand flowers
blooming
on the fringes
of democracy

The cherry trees are in full bloom; oh to sit here and drink sake. But I’m tired, feeling those fifteen days of Nordic walking. We have a final coffee together, a short closing. I catch the bus home.

cold ashes
in the campfire …
pondering
the end of a journey
the start of another

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Author’s Notes:
 
1 ACT: Australian Capital Territory
2 BMR: Bureau of Mineral Resources
3 youse: you (second person plural, Australian vernacular)

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About the Author

Gerry Jacobson lives in Canberra, Australia, and can be found writing tanka in its cafes.  He was a geologist in a past life and now celebrates reincarnation as a dancer.