Articles – Page 102 – Aussie on the Road

Travel with the Depression: My Battle with the Black Dog

January 23, 2012 144 Comments

It comes as a surprise to people who don’t know me well to learn that I’m not actually that happy. At least, not most of the time.

A good friend of mine recently expressed her surprise when I told her how I can spend entire weekends in bed with the lights out and still not feel like I’ve rested. How I can sometimes let a week pass without having a single meaningful conversation with another human being.

How, and I’m loath to admit it, there’s been periods in my life where all I’ve wanted to do is go to sleep and never wake up again.

“You always seem so happy,” she explained, “When we chat and in the way you write“.

I tried to explain to her that the me I post here on these pages and I try to portray to most people is how I want to see myself. That happy-go-lucky adventurer without a care in the world is the man I so desperately want to be.

If I look back over some of the best experiences of my life, that black dog (as the Roman poet Horace first described) has always been trotting faithfully along behind me. Look at the smiling face in those photographs and he’s always been there – the lingering doubt and self loathing that has tarnished and colored almost every moment of my adult life.

man with tulips — I was, in all honesty, miserable on this particular day in sunny Seoul.

The smile so often falls off of my face as soon as the flash has faded.

In the beginning

cute kid — A younger, happier Aussie (not yet) on the Road

I couldn’t tell you when I first started to feel the way I’ve come to feel most days. I don’t know when the wild, extroverted, and completely shameless kid I was growing up changed.

At times I think that depression has been a relatively recent addition to my life. After all, I wasn’t diagnosed with it until early 2010. But if I look back over the last ten years of my life, there’s that old black dog again.

It was there when I told a crowd of crying friends and relative strangers I wanted to kill myself while I threw up into the toilet at a college party in 2002.

It was there when I’d call in sick to my three day a week job in 2006 because I couldn’t bear the thought of having to be seen by people.

It was there when I’d turn down invitations to go out and spend time with friends because I was too damn tired of plastering on a smile and pretending I wasn’t exhausted.

So while I was given a label to put on it when I moved back to Sydney in 2010, I think I’d known something was wrong for a long time.

I’d always thought that maybe I was just a naturally ‘down’ person. Maybe it just a character trait that made me cry more easily than most. Maybe I was just naturally inclined to be tired regardless of how much sleep I got.

When I look at my life objectively, I see no reason for the way I feel. I have a wonderfully supportive family with whom I get along well and know would be there for me in a heartbeat if I needed them; I’ve got more friends than I can count; a job that I enjoy; no major health issues; no money worries; and I live in a country and a time in history where the world is literally there for me to explore if I so desire.

I’ve loved some remarkable women, made some unforgettable friends, and done more in the past five years of my life than most people will ever do in a lifetime.

When I first stopped and realized just how good I had it and compared that to the feelings of sadness, isolation, self loathing, and exhaustion that so often accompany me about my day – I realized maybe it was more than just a few character quirks.

I went first to a doctor and then to a therapist.

I’d like to say that after nearly two years of travel with depression that I’ve made some progress, but the truth is I’m no farther along the path towards happiness than I was when I scored a 29 on the K10 test.

Truth? I scored higher when I retook the test midway through last year.

Hitting Bottom

There have been a few dizzying, soul destroying lows throughout the years. I’ve done some stupid things in the hope they’d make me feel better.

For me, the lowest point came in May last year.

I’d returned from Korea after my midnight run and the break-up of a relationship I never should have gone into. I was staying with my sister, unemployed, and the weather was miserable.

I was on the phone crying my heart out to Lifeline when my brother burst into the room asking if I wanted to kick a soccer ball around. I’d never let one of my siblings see past the walls I’d put up. I couldn’t tell if I felt ashamed or relieved.

He came back into the room a few moments later with the phone in his hand and my mother on the line.

Three days later I got a call at 2am after I’d posted a typically emo song lyric on my Facebook wall. My other brother, worried about me but unable to tell me himself, woke my sister up in the middle of the night and had her call my mother.

I’d been staying in Armidale with a friend and like a homesick kid, my mother had to come and get me.

I’d never felt so utterly helpless in my life, but knowing that my family cared so deeply about me helped. I wasn’t fixed, but I gradually began to claw my way back out of the lows.

I wish I could say I hadn’t slipped back in the months since.

How travel with depression has affected me

In a lot of ways, depression is a self perpetuating problem. It’s an exhausting process to wake up every day and wish it was time to go back to bed again.

I can’t even begin to explain how exhausting it has become to put on a smile and play the part of a happy person almost every day now for as long as I can remember.

That’s not to say I don’t have days, or even weeks, of genuine happiness. Those periods are the ones that get me through the troughs.

The tiredness and self loathing take their toll. You take sick days because you’re too damn tired to get out of bed. You say no to that invitation to go out. You take the easy path through life because the idea of failing would be one blow too many to an already fragile ego.

I lost my job in Korea last year because I was too caught up in my own sadness to focus on my work. I took sick days so I could stay in bed. I struggled to stay awake in classes despite getting a full night’s sleep.

Some of the best trips of my life – China in 2008 and the US in 2009 – saw my moods bounce erratically between happiness and utter despair. I’ve cried myself to sleep more often in my 28 years than anybody, especially an Australian man, should in a lifetime.

I’ve had otherwise promising relationships come to a premature end because I was so happy to find somebody who liked the man I couldn’t bring myself to like that I lived solely for them. I’d pin all of my happiness on a person to the point that I forsook friendships and other passions, and then I’d be inconsolable when they inevitably cracked under the pressure of being my whole world.

I don’t begrudge them their decision. Nobody wants to love somebody who can’t love themselves.

I self sabotage. I did the easy course at University. I take jobs with the least likelihood of failure. I fail to pursue promising romantic options because I’m afraid I’ll only fuck it up.

I drink. Not often, but a lot. Alcohol has been my partner in crime since it first came into my life at 17. At first it only made things worse, but it got to a point that it was my way of maintaining the mask. In Korea I’d drink 3 or 4 nights a week until I became ‘that guy’ who everybody knew about town. I loved it.

Hell, I still look back at those days as some of the happiest in my life.

But there would always be the hangover. The day of utter self loathing and panic attacks as I worried that I’d done something stupid. The fallout from girls kissed or arguments started. The fights and the near misses.

The nights I don’t even remember.

I don’t have it as bad as I could. I’ve never self harmed or seriously contemplated suicide. I’m not alone in my battle and I know it. My family and my friends are always there for me if I need to vent, need to cry, or just need to hash out my feelings.

If anything, it’s been my decision to keep so much of this close to my chest.

What to do?

The laundry list of problems above might indicate that I’m resigned to being this way for the rest of my life. But nothing could be farther from the truth.

Remember that happy-go-lucky adventurer I mentioned earlier? The one most people see? I intend to someday be that guy in more than just action.

I’m not going to look back at my life at 70 or 80 and realize I’ve squandered most of it on boozy regrets and self pity.

We only get this one chance to live our lives and I don’t know when it is I might die – but when I do, I don’t want it to be knowing that I wasn’t all I could be in this life. I don’t want it to be a lifetime filled with ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’.

I recently listed my 2012 Resolutions and amongst them were several aimed solely at being the person I want to be.

Already I’ve started a new course of medication and I intend to start seeing a therapist again soon. I’ve never given one more than two weeks. It’s time I respected the process.

I’ve started running again. I’ve run three times in the past week and while I’m nowhere near the level I was at two years ago, I’m slowly seeing signs of improvement.

I’m trying to eat healthier and I’m forcing myself to say yes where I would usually prefer to say no. I was out four nights out of seven last week socializing and meeting new people.

Anthony from Man vs Clock is a man I have a great deal of respect for and, in part, I credit him with nudging me in the direction I currently find myself headed in. His post It’s Ok not to be Ok was a slap in the face that I needed, and I’m going to be borrowing another page from his book:

I’m going to quit drinking.

suit up drunk man — Bye bye beer. I’ll suit up without you.

This is a big one for me. Like everybody else, I’ve made the promise before when I’ve been hungover only to renege on it a week later. I do have a lot of good times when I drink – but if I’m serious about getting better, I need to realize that drinking so much is only making things worse.

Not only because it’s a depressant or because it has worsened problems in the past, but also because it’s been a way for me to pretend I’m ok for too long. It allows me to fake confidence and that means I’m not developing any of my own.

For far too long I’ve made promises to myself and I’ve put them off.

“Oh, I’ll start exercising again on the weekend when I have more time”.

“It’s ok, I’ll eat pizza tonight and start my diet tomorrow”

“I’ll visit the therapist next week. It’ll be ok”.

“I’ll quit drinking after the next party. Oh wait, no, after Christmas. Can’t not drink at Christmas”.

I need to do this. Not just so I can be happier. Not just because I want to be that person so many people believe me to be.

But because I can’t go on being this tired and miserable for the rest of my life. Because the idea of still feeling this way in a year – let alone ten – terrifies me.

I’m never going to be the person, friend, partner, father, or writer I know I can be as long as I have this hanging over my head unacknowledged and untreated.

Ten years of trying to manage it on my own have taught me that it’s not a battle I can win without help. No more excuses. Sharing this is my way of making myself accountable.

Wish me luck.

If you want to know more about depression or want to help in the battle against depression, you can find out more from excellent sites such as Beyond Blue, The Black Dog Institute, and Lifeline.

If you’ve dealt with your own demons in the past, how did you start on your road to recovery? Any tips or words of wisdom you’d care to share?

Astoria, Portland, United States

Goonies Never Say Die – A Goonies Tour of Astoria

January 18, 2012 6 Comments

The Celica cuts through the early morning mists that shroud Lewis & Clark National Park’s towering pines as I drift in and out of sleep. Besides me, my girlfriend taps along with the tune of Paolo Nutini’s Candy and takes in the chill fall air.

Despite being half asleep on account of our early morning start and a filling breakfast of amazing Noah’s Bagels with a jalapeno shmear, I’m also excited like a kid on Christmas morning. Just an hour from now I’ll be standing in beautiful Astoria, home of the legendary Goonies.

Jalapeno bagel from Noah's — The best bagel I’ve ever had

If you’re not a product of the 80s you might not recall Stephen Spielberg’s delightfully dark children’s film about buried pirate treasure, evil real estate developers, and a lovable mongoloid by the name of Sloth. Some of my earliest memories are of watching the funny and sometimes scary 80s classic, and the opportunity to explore the town in which it was filmed was too good to refuse when I was only an hour away in Portland.

There is no official Goonies tour, but I’d done a little research and managed to piece something together for our little day trip.

And as our car pushed on down the winding and damp roads, I was reminded of the scene in which Mikey’s brother, Brant was thrown off of the road while attempting to ride a pink bike…

The Goonies House

The first stop on our Goonies tour was also the most important – a chance to stop by the house where the infamous Truffle Shuffle was danced.

Despite it being midweek for our trip, we weren’t alone in fighting for a parking spot on the surprisingly crowded suburban street. We passed a handful of smiling tourists on our way towards our destination. Clearly we weren’t alone in our pilgrimage.

Located at 368 38th street, the legendary Goonies House lays at the head of a steep driveway where a sign welcomes all Goonies who wish to come by and pay a visit.

The house is owned and used as residence these days, so unfortunately you can’t go inside to check it out, but you’re still able to stand out front and pose for photos as long as you respect the owner’s privacy.

The place doesn’t look quite the same as it did in the movies, obviously. The elaborate gate opening mechanism isn’t there and the front drive isn’t the same one down which the Goonies ride in search of pirate treasure. But there’s a kind of magic standing in the spot where one of your childhood favorites was filmed.

Data’s house is located nearby at 370 38th street if you want to check that out too.

The County Jail

Our next port of call was the county jail from which the Fratellis escape during the film’s opening sequence. I found myself humming the memorable Goonies theme song as my Goonies tour rolled on.

goonies county jail — Standing out front of the County Jail

The jail, no longer used to house prisoners, is located at 732 Duane Street. Again, you’re not able to go inside, but you can still pose out front in the same space where a circle of fire allowed Mama Fratelli to bust her kid out of jail. Pretty cool.

The Museum

It doesn’t play a huge part in the movie, but I also took the time to swing by the museum where Mikey’s Dad works in the movie. It features for all of a second in a scene where the Goonies ride through town, but it’s located nearby at 441 8th street and is actually a museum in its own right by the name of George Flavell House Museum.

We opted not to fork out to venture inside due to our tight budgets, but you can find out more about the museum by checking out its website (linked above).

Haystack Rock

The last location that I’d hoped to hit on my tour was Haystack Rock – which plays a pretty crucial role in the movie but is actually located some miles distant at Cannon Beach.

It’s only about a 35 minute drive, but our day couldn’t be all about my Goonies tour – we were off to Seaside to have a wee bit of clam chowder and saltwater taffy.

Relationships are all about compromise.

All Done!

It’s something special to make a pilgrimage to a site that holds some kind of significance to your childhood self. Whether you’re heading to Forks because you’re obsessed with Twilight or you want to do the Seinfeld tour in New York – we all get a kick out of walking on ground that we associate with a younger, happier, or better time in our lives.

A Goonies tour is a fun day trip out of Portland and it’s also a good excuse to explore beautiful Astoria. I’ll have to share more of my trip there with you in a future entry.

Australia, Sydney

An Aussie Bucks, Part II: Old People and Strippers

January 17, 2012 8 Comments

You can read about the rest of our bucks party adventures in Part I of this story.

Partying with the Elderly

A bus full of drunk Australian lads rattles its way back up the winding road away from Bobbin Head in Mount Kurin-gai National Park. Our four eskies full of beer have been reduced to a lonesome collection of Oettinger and Sol – not exactly the beer of kings.

The dire beer situation forced a stop over in Asquith to pick up some much needed refreshments. A duo of Tooheys Extra Dry cartons and a Hahn Super Dry carton were piled onto the bus and we ushered a few of our less adventurous (or more catatonic) companions out of the bus and onto a train bound for their homes.

Our lunchtime BBQ had become a distant memory to our famished stomachs, and so we wound our way through crowded streets and pulled up out front of the Asquith Leagues Club.

Our motley crew made our way through sign in while I regaled the security guard on hand with the tale of how my wallet was stolen on Christmas Eve while I was at midnight mass.

“God was angry,” I informed him, “Somebody’s going to hell“.

Behind me the second half of our group – split up so as not to arouse suspicions that we were a rowdy bucks party.

“What the hell are you guys doing lurking back there?” I slurred drunkenly, completely dispelling the carefully constructed illusion.

“Do I know you?” the best man asked, hoping I’d take the hint. I did not.

“Jesus,” I complained to the security guy, “You give a guy syphillis one time and he treats you like a total stranger“.

I then wandered off in pursuit of a beer and a pretty barmaid, leaving the security guard to inform my friends that this was “the best sign-in ever”.

Hold your applause folks. I’ll be here all night.

Our time at Asquith Leagues was not particularly exciting. While the girls at the bar seemed to appreciate (or at least smile indulgently at) our feeble attempts at flirting and our enthusiasm for our bistro meals when they were brought out, the average age in the place would have been 55+. Not exactly a happening night spot for a bunch of guys looking for a good time.

And so it was that we clambered back into the bus and went off in search of women of lower morale fibre…

Showgirls and Bucket List Item #169

man and a stripper — Another shot of another stripper from another bucks night

The trip into the city was a bit of a blur for me. Truth is, I fell asleep for much of it. Being up since 5am and being drunk certainly aren’t conducive to wide eyes no matter how much [V] energy drink you slam down your gullet.

But soon enough we were in Sydney’s beating heart of sin and excess – King’s Cross.

Walking down the garishly lit streets put me in mind of my time in Las Vegas. Impossibly good looking girls poured into revealing dresses strutted past chattering loudly about some boy they’d met or how their hair-dresser was the absolute best in the world. Men reeking of cologne and beer staggered past telling tall tales while security guards eyed all of us impassively from their stations out front of various clubs, bars, and strip joints.

For some reason we were relying on one of the two gay guys in our party to find a strip club. He opted for Showgirls and the men at the door were only too happy to usher in a bunch of drunk guys. We forked over our $25 entry fees, paid through the nose for $9 Coronas, and settled into a booth that put us a little too close to one another

No man wants an erection while rubbing shoulders and knees with his compatriots.

At some point during the night – just as I was contemplating going home – a cute looking stripper with pig tails and obviously fake boobs made a show of ‘bumping’ into me.

“Oops!” she giggled as she rubbed her chest along mine, “I’m so clumsy“.

She had glitter around her eyes.

“I’m Taylor,” she said.

It’s the oldest trick in the book, but damned if it didn’t work.

Ten minutes later I’d forked over $100 for a private dance and the opportunity to check item number 169 off of my Bucket List.

#169 – Get a lap dance in a strip club – Done.

Sorry kids, no photos.

Once my dance was done it was time for me to make tracks. I had work in the morning and my long day had taken its toll. I said my goodbyes, got a kiss on the cheek from the lovely ‘Taylor’ as I left, and staggered back to Central Station for the ride home.

It was – as all bucks are – a thoroughly enjoyable and exhausting day. And a tad expensive as well.

And while the ‘no camera’ policy does mean I don’t have any good photos of the day, the groom-to-be was kind enough to text me this cute number to send you out with a smile.

A man in a dress and camos — The groom-to-be all dolled up for laser tag

Australia, Sydney

An Aussie Bucks, Part I: Laser Tag and Beach Cricket

January 16, 2012 6 Comments

It’s true that what happens on a bucks night stays on a bucks night, so I’ll not be mentioning any names or reporting any crimes in this one – but I couldn’t let such a fun and varied day pass without sharing a few of my own adventures and observations with you.

Alas, the bucks had a strict ‘no cameras’ rule, so you’ll have to make do with a few random photos that loosely fit what I’m talking about.

The Journey

I wake before the sun has begun its ascent. The air is cold and outside I can hear the first spatters of rain as they strike the branches that shield my window from the morning sun I’d usually wake too.

I wash the sleep out of my system in a too hot shower, throw my backpack over my shoulder, and walk out into the grey half light of a miserable Saturday morning. A few dog walkers and early morning joggers are my only company as I wander up to the bus stop and wait for the 426.

I strike up conversation with the shift worker sharing the bus shelter. He marvels at my kindle as I try to find a new book to read. I eventually settle on Jeff Long’s post apocalyptic Year Zero. It’s fitting company for a dreary morning.

I get off the bus at Railway Square, walk through the claustrophobic tunnel that links Railway Square to Central Station. Already the place is abuzz with activity. Where are all of these people going at 6am on a Saturday morning?

A ninety minute train ride takes me from the heart of Australia’s largest city to the mist shrouded forest suburbs north of Kuring-Gai national park. The air is still cool at 7.30am and the rolling waves of mist and rain have chilled me to the core by the time I’ve crossed the road and ducked into the bakery to grab a breakfast of a sausage roll and a Oak ice coffee.

A dirt stained bus rattles to a halt in front of the liquor store across from me. Our wild haired driver stubs out a cigarette as I approach.

“You must be Chris,” he greets me as I step into the bus and come face to face with eight complete strangers. Introductions are made and I settle into the nearest free seat.

The bus lurches out onto the highway again and soon we trade carefully tended suburban lawns for breathtaking views of the Hawkesbury River and thick Australian bushland. Ribald stories begin to filter their way down from the back of the bus as a bladder full of vodka cranberry is passed back and forth.

Our bus pulls off of the freeway and bumps and rattles down a narrow road that eventually gives way to dirt. We’re afforded occasional glimpses of the world below through a thick curtain of mist that has filled the valley we’re descending into. The tell-tale hiss of a beer being opened starts me awake as I hang halfway between sleep and consciousness.

Soon we pull up out front of what we assume is First Strike Laser Tag. The morning air is laced with the sickly sweet stink of horse manure.

Another car pulls up and we collect a few more revelers. The owner of the ranch informs us that we’re not in the right place.

We head on farther down the road and eventually find ourselves in a broad clearing. Water clings to the knee length grass and sleepy campers emerge bleary eyed to greet the day.

We pile out in front of a pair of cargo containers with a tarp drawn tight between them. A man in camos stands behind a table laden with weapons.

It’s time to do battle.

laser tag man — Laser tag at a different bucks partu

Legen…wait for it… dary Laser Tag

The groom-to-be’s vetoing of paint ball meant we went with the slightly less macho alernative when it comes to running around shooting your friends and pretending to be bad-ass army soldiers.

First Strike Laser Tag, based halfway between Hornsby and Gosford, specializes in providing an alternative to paintball without sacrificing too much of the experience.

Our battlefield would be a stretch of woodland criss-crossed with hiking trails and fire roads.

Once we’d been briefed and had weapons assigned, we pulled on our camos and were split into two teams – imaginatively titled ‘Team One’ and ‘Team Two’.

Our first mission, a straight out skirmish designed to familiarize ourselves with the weapons, saw my motley crew edging cautiously between gum trees and stepping too loudly over logs. Little did we know that our travels were attracting the attention of a few hungry locals – mosquitos were finding purchase on bare skin while leeches snagged on socks and crawled up to where ankles were unprotected.

Some of us played a cautious game and lurked behind trees while others careened wildly into the midst of our enemies and saw their lives erased in a matter of seconds. A few more enthusiastic members would slide down hill, roll into cover behind logs, or crawl forward arm over arm as if standing up would draw lethal gunfire.

The poor groom-to-be found himself an easy target in his white evening gown.

Our team carried the field and then it was time to pluck off leeches and launch into a pair of VIP games. One team would escort a member of their team towards a heavily guarded flag which the others were charged with defending.

We did not fare well. In fact, four of our five team members were back sipping beers under cover before ten minutes had passed. Somehow, inexplicably, our loudest and least athletic member just happened to be our VIP and made a last second dash for the flag. Tumbling down a hill like the boulder in Indiana Jones, he somehow managed to avoid being shot and crashed into the flag.

We had stolen victory!

giant beer sydney — My mate Dave sucks down a giant beer at the Lowenbrau in 2010

Two more games and two more victories follow, and then it’s time for celebratory beers and a welcome reprieve from the constant drizzle that had soaked through our camos and ensured every one of us reeked of sweat and damp.

War stories were exchanged and leeches were picked off of ankles and wrists and necks before being stubbed out on the end of angry cigarettes.

And then, bellies full of beer and little else, it was time for lunch.

Cricket, Skinning Dipping, and a BBQ

Our next stop, after a brief layover at a BP to restock on Red Bull and beer, would be the shores of the Hawkesbury River at beautiful Bobbin Head in Kuring-Gai national park. Eskies were toted down to the waterfront and the BBQ was fired up for a traditional lunch of snags (sausages), steak, and onions on white bread.

It doesn’t get much more typically Aussie than that.

beer near the river — Good beer. Different river.

While some of the boys stripped down to their shorts and braved oyster cuts by wading into the river, others set up the cricket stumps and began an impromptu game of cricket.

We were soon joined by a trio of Indian-Australian kids who put our increasingly drunk party to shame with their bowling form and fielding. Most of us were reduced to throwing arms hopefully in the direction of fast moving strikes or batting with one hand while the other held a beer.

inflatable penis bucks night — Shenanigans at my mate's bucks in 2010

We’d started out drinking Tooheys Extra Dry and Hahn Super Dry and had somehow been reduced to sipping tins of cheap German swill and flavorless Sol from Mexico. Hell, one of our party resorted to polishing off the better part of a bottle of Ouzo on his lonesome.

By this point the rain had given way to overcast skies and the beers had well and truly taken their effect. I managed to faceplant in attempting an ambitious run up for a bit of pace bowling.

After that, I decided to stick with spin.

It was 4pm and the day was young. The buck had yet to complete half of his Buck-Et List and we’d not touched on the more debaucherous aspects of a bucks weekend.

But that was set to change…

chris and stripper — Oh hi, I'm a stripper. I wonder if I'll feature in the next entry?

Idaho, United States

Riding the Route of the Hiawatha

January 13, 2012 10 Comments

A Good Companion

One of the things I’ll always remember fondly about my two year relationship with my ex was the way she always kept life interesting. I’ve spoken in the past about what makes a fantastic travel companion and one of those traits, to me, is the ability to find fun in a variety of things.

During the course of my time with my ex, we went on a whole bunch of random adventures. Some of them, such as rock and roll dancing lessons or taking surfing lessons in Manly weren’t for me. Others, such as running the City 2 Surf or learning to scuba dive are things I loved and still do to this day.

A couple on the route of the hiawatha — Posing at the Route of the Hiawatha in 2009.

We went on a Portland Brewery Tour, hung out in Vegas, camped on a miserable Korean island, discovered the brilliant Hart’s Pub, took a photography course in The Rocks, climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge, hiked in the Blue Mountains, did a whirlwind tour of New Zealand, and a whole bunch of other stuff.

Fallon and I parted ways over a year ago now and she’s since been engaged and is set to tie the knot with the love of her life later this year. We maintain a good friendship and it’s random adventures like the one I’m about to share with you that I will always remember as the best part of our time together.

The Route of the Hiawatha

The Olympian Hiawatha train line between Chicago and Seattle hasn’t seen a train ride its tracks since 1980; but the stretch between St Paul’s Pass near Wallace, Idaho down to the western trail head has been resurrected as a 13 mile bicycle track that offers spectacular views of northern Idaho pine forest, a number of tunnels, and a relatively easy ride that families can also get out and enjoy.

A small fee of $9 for adults (and $6) for children gives you access to the trail and is used to maintain the park and ensure it will be available for future generations to use. While the train tracks have long since been lifted, the route is still just as it was when steam trains chugged across the country in the 1900s.

a tunnel route of the hiawatha — One of the smaller tunnels along the Route of the Hiawatha

The ride, starting with a nerve-rattling one mile ride through the near total darkness of St Paul’s Pass (Taft Tunnel) runs down a gentle slope that crossed several raised wooden trestles, snakes through quite a few tunnels, and eventually ends at the western trail head where a bus is available to shuttle people back to the car park at the head of the trail.

You follow the same route the trains once took and this affords a largely untouched view of the national park the trail moves through.

Alternatively, more hardcore individuals could spin their bikes around and tackle the uphill for a 26 mile day.

In addition to bringing your own bike (although bikes can be rented with all equipment for as little as $29) it’s also advisable to bring a head lamp, warm clothes, and glvoers.

St. Paul’s Pass is a freezing cold, lightless bitch.

You can find out more about the Route of the Hiawatha and its history on the Route of the Hiawatha website.

Riding the Route

We woke early for the big ride. Despite it still technically being fall in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho; the air was thick with the cool of the coming winter as myself, Fallon, and her parents loaded our bikes onto the truck.

A pit-stop at Subway was the first point on the agenda, and why on earth don’t we have flat bread as an option here in Australia!? It’s amazing!

A scenic drive up towards Wallace (where Dante’s Peak was filmed) was accompanied by the music of George Strait. I kind of fell in love with country music during my six weeks living in Idaho…

Our drive takes us across the border into Montana, and soon enough we were pull up in a crowded car park alongside a yellow school bus. I thought they only existed in cartoons!

yellow bus hiawatha — A yellow schoolbus at the Trail of the Hiawatha

We saddled up, paid our $9 entry fees, and then it was time to strap on our head lamps and pull on sweaters and gloves. It certainly felt an odd way to dress for what promised to be a fairly sweat-raising bike ride on a bright sunny day, but St. Paul’s Pass would soon loom up ahead of us and all doubts would vanish.

Through the Mountain

St. Paul’s Pass (or Taft Tunnel) cuts underneath the ominously named Bitterroot Mountain and gives riders a one mile ride through near total darkness before they emerge on the trail. During the bone-chilling one mile ride riders also cross over from Montana back into Idaho. Kind of cool.

The passage through the tunnel is just a little bit harrowing. When I say near total darkness I mean that. The light filtering in from the tunnel doesn’t travel far and the dim light of your headlamp does little more than call up ominous shadows and make you feel just a little bit dizzy as you shakily follow its bumping dance across the damp floor.

Christ, I’m in Moria.

The cold is something else entirely. The inside of the tunnel sees no light at all, so you can imagine just how frigid it is in that dark place. Water drips from overhead and hands rapidly go numb despite thick gloves. The sound of water rushing through the gutters that hug the tunnel walls remind you that there’s a potentially ankle breaking tumble if you veer too close to the edge of the tunnel.

It’s with genuine relief that we emerged into the now blinding sun on the other side of the pass, and we paused to tug off jumpers and gloves before heading back out onto the trail.

We’re far from alone in our journey either. It’s a bright sunny day and families are out in force. We pass hardcore riders on expensive bikes and children being towed behind their parents in garishly colored carts.

Down the Hill

The ride after the harrowing tunnel journey is surprisingly pleasant. A gentle incline means pedaling is sparse and the sun overhead soon warms my cold bones. I’m a little shaky on the bike at first, especially when we pick up speed and need to round corners where crashing would involve a fatal fall to the pine forest below.

There ‘ain’t no fancy safety railings here, kids.

The vistas that the ride provides are stunning. It’s hard to imagine a train chugging along the broad path that we ride, but periodic tunnels remind us that this leisurely ride was once part of the American lifeblood.

We pause from time to time along the way to hydrate or pose for photographs by particularly enchanting pieces of scenery. Trail mix becomes my new favorite snack as the sun rises high overhead and we near the halfway point.

We decided earlier in the day not to ride all the way to the bottom. Instead we’ll turn around and ride back up the hill. The sweat in my arm-pits and the pain in my calves after the downhill makes me sure that this wasn’t a good idea…

Special mention must go to the spectacular views afforded by the trestles that lie along the route. Standing atop an old wooden bridge high above the forest below is a real treat. There are some great photo opportunities to be had as you stand there with nothing but the whistling wind and the creaking of timber to keep you company.

The Uphill

At the point I did the Route of the Hiawatha (September 2009) I had only just finished the Couch to 5k program, and runs such as the City 2 Surf were some way in the distance.

I’m ashamed to say that the uphill portion of our ride really did me in. My calves ached and my poor lungs struggled to make use of the thin Idaho air. Fallon was kind enoguh to send her parents on ahead without us so that they didn’t see me struggling like a lifelong smoker, but I still felt pretty ashamed at just how much I struggled on a fairly gradual climb.

Soon enough we were back at St. Paul’s Pass and one mile of darkness separated me from a rest I felt in dire need of. We saddled up, gritted our teeth, and emerged triumphant from the other side. We’d managed to cover over 18 miles all told, and I was in ready for a Bud Lite and a good, long rest when we got home.

Worth It?

My legs ached for a day or so and I felt saddle sore for a week, but I look back on the Route of the Hiawatha experience as a real joy. It was by no means a casual Sunday stroll when you factor in the uphill, but the views and the mountain air were really a wonderful introduction to Idaho.

standing at the route of the hiawatha trail head — I survived!

There’s something very cool about traversing St. Paul’s Pass as well. Similar to the experience of black water rafting in Waitomo’s famous glow-worm caves.

Idaho might not be packed full of tourist sights, but you can do far worse than spending a day out in the sun exploring a little piece of history nestled at the heart of some stunning natural beauty.