Why Trump Should only have been impeached once...in 2017

To all those Republicans who are saying, “the democrats have been trying to impeach Donald Trump from day 1! This isn't about the president's actions, but a ongoing personal vendetta.” Have you considered that the reason might be because he's been a risk to the nation from the very beginning?

How short memories are.

Let's look at 2017. Most analysts at the time were sure that one of the main reasons Donald Trump won the election was the bombshell drop of the information found by the DNC hack and the revelation of Hilary Clinton's secret email server. Very many people were suspicious that the Trump campaign may have been involved in both of these leaks, which is absolutely not a crazy conclusion and ANY other candidate would have been investigated for this. It wasn't helped by his speech encouraging Russian hackers to conduct further breaches, especially since at that time, we didn't even know it was Russia who'd done it. Whether in jest or not, given the situation, it was something worth investigating, especially amid the numerous business deals between the Trump Corporation and Russian oligarchs at the time. These concerns were further exasperated by Trump's constantly shifting description of his relationship with Vladimir Putin.

Even the most shallow investigation revealed numerous connections between the Trump campaign and Russian contacts, including people from within the Russian government. There was proof of multiple contacts between Paul Manafort, Jared Kushner, and Michael Flynn and these Russian sources. There was evidence of a cover up as well. Intelligence sources from Holland and UK both sent reports to US intelligence agencies saying that they intercepted messages talking of meetings with the Trump campaign. May I also mention the bombshell email exchange that showed that Donald Trump Jr., Jared Kushner, and Paul Manafort willingly met with Russian contacts for the sole purpose of obtaining information to help their campaign.

The FBI opened an investigation into these shady dealings, which resulted in a conviction for Michael Flynn for lying about his dealing with Russian agents. Trump almost immediately fired the director of the FBI James Comey after he refused to drop charges against Michael Flynn (it was later revealed that Trump had planned on firing him before, but it is suspicious enough to warrant an investigation). Following along? Good. At this point, Trump has been president for only two months.

I won't do a play by play of every single thing that happened. But to put it very simply, the evidence at the time seemed to suggest at the very least that there should be an investigation into the connections between the Trump campaign and Russia. It was not a witch hunt. It was an obvious example of something that needed to be looked into, especially when the other country involved is a dangerous dictatorship that is often considered an enemy of the United States. The Democrats had very convincing arguments that Trump was trying to obstruct this investigation and that made him appear even more guilty. If there was nothing to be found, why did he seem so hell bent on stopping the investigation? This was enough for them to beginning discussing the possibility of impeachment, because of the impending threat that the president of the United States itself may owe a favor the Russian government.

Then we had the Mueller report. After a long investigation, we got the reveal that yes, without a doubt, Russian had interfered with our election in a way that was beneficial to Donald Trump (something that the Republicans keep saying was never found despite piles of evidence). His report also revealed that there were very clear connections and contacts between the Russian government, wikileaks, and the Trump campaign. However, there was not enough evidence to convict Donald Trump by the legal definitions of conspiracy. His report also concluded without a doubt that the president had broken the law, committed obstruction of justice numerous times, and were he a private citizen, he would have been convicted. However, due to his position as the president of the United States, any formal declaration wrongdoing would need to be done by congress by way of impeachment, which he narrowly avoided (we can't ignore how close he was to being impeached thrice.). These acts of the president to derail the investigation further added to the alleged suspicions that he may have had connections to Russia.

Bill Barr announced to the nation and lied about the contents of the report by saying, falsely, that the president was completely exonerated. In front of the House of Representative, Robert Mueller doubled down on the findings of his report and said that Trump absolutely committed numerous crimes that could be considered impeachable.

Fast forward two years and one actual impeachment. In 2020, a REPUBLICAN LED SENATE COMMITTEE concluded that the Trump campaign had significant dealing with a Russian agent who was involved with Russia's interference in the election of 2016, vindicating the Democrat's initial reasons for impeachment in his first year as president.

So yes, the Democrats have been trying to impeach Donald Trump from the very start of his presidency, not just because they hate him, but because he's ALWAYS been a threat to the country and should never have been allowed to be president. We can only wonder how these last four years would have turned out if the Republicans had actually done their job as public servants and not operated as soulless power brokers, bent on protecting the president in exchange for votes by his rabid base of KKK members and neo-Nazis.

Key Differences between BLM and the Capitol Coup

There's been a lot people and conservative talking heads who are trying to claim that there is fundamentally no real difference between the BLM protests and what happened at the capitol. And frankly this is both naive and insulting. It's a ridiculous claim.

Did the protests this summer go too far? Absolutely yes. Do the people who vandalized buildings, burned down stores, incited violence need to be punished? Or course. Rioting is never a good a thing and I pushed back against anybody this summer who said it was (with the exception of pulling down racist statues, which I saw as an essential step in moving our society forward from its racist past). Both events resulted in property damage and violence, but there are some clear differences worth considering.

1) During the two main weeks of protests this summer 19 people died. This was a mixture of police, bystanders, and protesters. Some of these by the police, some of these were by protesters, some of these were by vigantes and extremists who either wanted to take law into their own hands or use the chaos to commit crimes. Some of these deaths were connected to far-right terrorist groups. This was over TWO WEEKS across the ENTIRE UNITED STATES.

During the attack on the capitol, five people died. One police officer who was beaten to death, one woman who was shot trying to break into the senate chamber after being told to stand down along with a number of people who were shown on video to have the intention of taking hostages or murdering senators, two died of medical problems, and one was trampled to death. This was over the period of a couple hours in one building.

2) Much of the protests this summer were a part of struggle for the civil rights of minorities in response to the unwarranted murder of a black man at the hands of a police officer that was painfully caught on tape. We cannot confirm the murder was racially motivated (it very likely wasn't, in fact), but it came on the heels of numerous shooting and strangling deaths by police officers committed upon innocent people of color. Again, we cannot verify that these deaths were the racially motivated, but that's the belief of numerous people. Compared to other developed western countries, the United States has a extremely disproportionate number of deaths by police. This led a to a widespread call for a reform of the police system.

The protest in DC was instigated by the lies of a political party. They were a large number of people there standing against what they saw as a widespread election fraud that has been backed by scant evidence. Even the accusers have not provided sufficient evidence of voter fraud to give them any legal standing to dispute the election. President Trump was given numerous opportunities to prove his allegations and has explored every legal recourse he has. They've filed nearly 60 lawsuits (only in states where they lost...clearly cheating only happens there) and has won one I think. The vast majority were either dropped or never got to court due to lack of evidence. A bipartisan investigation has declared this the most secure election in American history. Trump's allegations of voter has been denied by judges he's appointed, governors who have supported him in the past, and the supreme court itself. He lost the election.

Donald Trump called upon his base to swarm DC on the date of the vote certification, dropping numerous vague threats and claims that they could overturn the results. Many within his base congregated with the sole intention of committing acts of terrorism and overthrowing the government. These intentions have been clearly documented on social media. On the 6th of January, Donald Trump, Rudy Guilianni, and his son urged the crowd the march on the capitol to stop the verification of the vote, a democratic step that confirms the election of the president of the United States. The crowd did as he urged them to and stormed the capitol building. They broke through the barrier and started beating police officers. Many of them armed. They were chanting that they'd hunt down numerous members of our government and murder them. It is by the hard work of the police that they were unable to breech the house and senate chambers before our representative were evacuated. They defecated over the halls, stole sensitive documents, destroyed government property, planted bombs. Not all of them, but a good number of these people entered with the purpose of trying to overturn a democratic process as illustrated by our constitution. They broke in to start a revolution. How do we know? They filmed themselves doing it. They filmed themselves saying it. When this was finished. Donald Trump told them he loved them.

Here's the main difference here. The protests over this summer were there to bring attention to violations of civil rights. They never tried to overthrow the government. Last week was a coup attempt instigated by the president. He didn't want the votes verified and he organized a mob to stop it, or at the very least disrupt it. There is no evidence as of now that Mr. Trump had the intention of getting his base to breech the capitol itself, but it was a foregone conclusion given the circumstances and his rhetoric that very clearly told them that they should stop this democratic process.

Do I think that the Democrats who encouraged violence are wrong? Of course I do. I don't think they were wrong to encourage protests, though. Protests brought America Civil Rights. Protests brought us workers' rights. Protests made us a country. It's a huge part of our culture and I don't think it should stop. But calling what happened on January 6th a protest is horribly naive. We've never seen a protest, including that of this summer, attack the capitol with the purpose of killing important members of our government and stopping the verification of a legal election. That's what a coup is. THEY ARE NOT COMPARABLE. Quit doing it, because they are objectively very different things.

On the preservation of our dark history

(For some cultural context. This was written in June 2020 amidst the protests following the murder of George Floyd, as our society is currently reassessing the value of many statues and monuments to our racist and imperialist past. Some claim they are symbols of oppression. Others claim that they are unavoidable reminders of our history and need to be preserved.)


We're living in a time of social unrest, one could even say this is soft revolution. It's not uncommon in these situations for people to lash out against the symbols of the establishment people are rallying against. For example, in the 1956 revolution, the people of Budapest stormed the city park and pulled down the 25m high statue of Stalin, easily the most obvious symbol of the Soviet system they were rebelling against. Only a handful would claim that this was not a justified reaction to oppressive rule. And it would be ludicrous to object on the grounds that Stalin is a part of their history (I mean, the statue was only five years old at that point too.). Stalin had to go. The Hungarian people were sick of oppression, and to keep it looming above them would have been a capitulation, an admittance that no matter how hard they fight, there would never be change. This is only one example in a long history of the destruction of cultural relics in periods of social change. When army's invade (liberate) cities, it is the idols of the previous regime that are first destroyed.

Therefore, it's understandable that when we are experiencing a revolution against the hundreds of years of subjugation of a race of people by society, that people unleash that anger on the symbols of that subjugation: African imperialism, slavery, the Confederacy, Jim Crow, and segregation. Frank Rizzo needs to go. Jefferson Davis needs to go. God damn it, Leopold II needs to go! He should never have celebrated in the first place. This is not just done for symbolism, but catharsis. It feels good to look Stalin in the eye as his head lies, damaged at your feet.

This is not to say that this isn't a nuanced issue. For every obvious example of terrible symbolism we can no longer keep, there's five more that are fuzzy. What do we do with monuments to the architects of cities, nations even, who were deeply flawed people that supported racist institutions? Is it time to destroy statues of Churchill? Do we blow up Mount Rushmore, The Jefferson and Washington memorials, because two of the nation's greatest leaders were slave owners? Well, most people would say no. These are cultural landmarks. They're not simple statues, but architectural wonders. These don't just represent the men, but the wealth and power of America itself. But that wealth and power was built upon oppression. Do these represent that oppression? I don't know. Personally, I think these are objects of cultural significance that we need to retain. But if the Nazi's had carved the face of Hitler into the mountains near the Berghof, all but the most adamant Nazi sympathizers would want it dynamited. Clearly, being a feat of human ingenuity does not save things from destruction.

What do we do with Edward Colston the slave trader whose philanthropic work helped establish many of the institutions and buildings of Bristol? What do we do with Bristol itself or Liverpool, cities that grew to great prominence from their involvement with the slave trade and imperialism? With the right frame of mind, we could start tearing down whole sections of cities, saying the very fabric our current society is itself a symbol of oppression. A lot of people seem to be siding with this view. Is it hypocritical to say that monuments should be destroyed, but the cities that can have an even greater symbolic power should stay? I think most would argue that, no, we can't burn down our entire society because of its dark origins, we need building and schools and stores. The dictator Ceaușescu's palace is still in use in Bucharest. So is it functionality that determines if we should preserve something?

What about the statues of Christopher Columbus? He started this whole mess. He brought with him waves and waves of Europeans and sparked the genocide of an entire continent! And his most famous contribution to history, the “discovery” of America, wasn't even his (personally, I say take them down. I've been anti-Columbus for my whole life. I've never understood why we celebrated him over all the other explorers.) Well, that's a tough one too. Because if we are looking for where to point fingers as to where this whole mess started, then we'd better prepare to have sore fingers. One argument the preservationist have that I do support, is that this can very easily become a slippery slope of destruction the further back we go in history. Should we change the names of our cities and states because they were named after the British monarchs who spurred on the western expansion? If Rhodesia is a racist name, is Virginia too? Or have these been established for so long that they've lost their symbolic power, become just names?

The Red Fort, Fatehpur Sikri, and Taj Mahal were built by an imperialist regime that invaded Northern India from Central Asia. They are arguably some of the most beautiful buildings ever built, bringing millions of tourists to India. Are these symbols of oppression? Well, most would assert they are 500 year-old symbols of the greatness of Indian culture, with the Mughals seen as merely a chapter of the long march of shifting empires in the Sub-Continent. Would we encourage their destruction if we all suddenly see a mass shift towards the demonization of the Mughals? I'd like to argue that we can't. Is the beauty of the Taj Mahal? Is it that the Taj Mahal makes the city of Agra a ton of money? What about the aesthetically pleasing East India Company's buildings in Kolkata? They also bring tourists to India? Then we have the Colosseum of Rome, maybe the world's most striking and enduring symbol of slavery, oppression, and imperialism ever built. Is it time for that to go? Is beauty or public interest that makes something worth saving? Is it profit potential?

Naturally, there's no easy answer to any of these questions, but we do have to remember that people reassess their landmarks all the time. Streets change names. Buildings, even whole blocks get destroyed. Statues that remind us of a shameful past get torn down. This is the march of time. Sometimes people go too far in pushing forward, look at the Cultural Revolution in China if you need an example. I'm not saying that the destruction of our past and culture is something that should be taken lightly.

So how do we decide what's too valuable to our cultural heritage? Well, this needs to be done in a case-by-case basis. I'd say the older something is, the more beautiful something is, the more incredible of an achievement, yes, the more profitable something is, that makes it worth saving. UNESCO world heritage sites exist for a reason. It just seems convenient that the same people who object to the removal of an arguably racist monument because of “history”, are the same people who thinks it's fine to destroy even older, historical monuments of the Native Americans, for mining purposes. You can try all you want to disentangle this from politics, but somehow this (to me) crystal clear issue is connected to the political spectrum.

Jefferson Davis may have been a leader of such calibre that he was selected to be the president of a fledgling nation (for his being a “champion of slave society”), but he symbolizes the Confederacy, a rogue nation that separated from the United States because they supported slavery. (I know lots of people like to argue that it was a war for states' rights, but I challenge you to name one single right besides slavery they were fighting for.) It is impossible to separate the image of Jefferson Davis from slavery, so if we're to make any inroads in the battle against racism, to have him towering over us, reminding us of how half the nation was so passionately supportive of the dehumanization of an entire of race of people, that they were willing to not only die, but kill their neighbors to defend that dehumanization.

There are no Nazi statues in Germany. The racist Nazi regime lasted for 12 years and is probably the single most defining, and dark moment of modern German history, if not the 20th century. But there are very few people who are screaming, “Hitler was our history! He needs to be preserved!” (probably because they would be speaking German, but that's beside the point). That would be ludicrous. Anyone who says that would be considered a racist, an anti-semite, a fringe member of society. Yet, some people want to claim that the five year racist Confederate regime is a part of our history and needs to be preserved. The hypocrisy is clear. Sure, the Nazis were inarguably worse, but the symbolism is the same. Waving a Nazi flag carries with it the instant admittance of white supremacy, so how can anyone argue that waving the confederate flag is any different? Many of our American ancestors died fighting for racism. But these are not the deaths we should commemorate. If my grandfather thought that killing black people was fun, I would denounce him whether he's my grandfather or not. I don't care how much of a good hugger he was. If I didn't reject him, that would mean I condone his actions. An if you don't denounce your confederate ancestors, you're doing the same. And if you call them heroes, that means YOU SUPPORT SLAVERY! It's very straightforward. There's no two-ways about about it. To celebrate the history of the confederacy is to celebrate racism. To glorify the fallen heroes of the South is to glorify slavery. And if state governments continue to commemorate the confederacy by keeping confederate monuments on government property, that's akin to keeping a giant swastika in front of the Reichstag. These statues are literally putting these disgusting people on a pedestal.

These are not old monuments, hastily erected during the short time of The Confederate States. Most were built in the 1900s! You have to question why somebody would support the building of these statues 50 years after the abolition of slavery. Many of them are not particularly beautiful or architectural achievements that people 100 years from now will find impressive. Their destruction is not going to stop the flow of tourist dollars to the American South.

So why do so many Southerners feel the need to continually glorify the lives of these people, other than nationalism for a country that invaded the United States of America 160 years ago, so they could keep their slaves?

As I mentioned, I'm not a huge advocate for the destruction of the past. I think countries like Germany or Cambodia have done a great job at finding the balance between preserving the memory of their dark past without glorification. Auschwitz and The Killing Fields still stand, turned into museums so people can sombrely respect the millions who died and remember people of how whole nations of people can go astray enough to commit genocide. The Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church still stands in Berlin as a reminder of the ultimate destruction that came from the Nazi regime.

If we feel the need to keep our monuments for the Confederacy, do what Hungary or Russia did with their monuments to the Soviet Union, place them all in a park, so people can still see them, but wrapped in the message that it was WRONG. I think we need to make sure that the right history is being taught. Americans need to know about the horrors our nation committed in Vietnam, in Laos, in the Philippines, in South America. They need to know that the UN supported the genocidal Khmer Rouge until 1993. Brits need to know how their nation raped the glorious wealth of India or Africa. The people of the South need to be taught that their ancestors thought slavery was worth dying for. We need to make sure none of these things are forgotten. But glorifying our dark history is not the way to do it. 

Olympus Has Fallen

When this whole crisis started snowballing, I knew right away that the backwards systems in place in the United States would be completely incompatible with what would be needed to fight this. Over the last forty years, the government had declawed the unions, stripped workers rights so much, that it has created a culture of working through sickness out of fear of not just losing pay, but losing their jobs because of the consequences of being sick. Basically, this is just a microcosm of the United States as a whole, with a president that is the equivalent of that boss that will give you grief for doing the right thing, main because it's “bad for the company”.

Now mix into this a disease that in most exhibits only minor repository symptoms (let's ignore the biggest issue: that people can be asymptomatic and still spread it for up to two weeks). So, at the company level, we have millions of people working through illness, spreading it to others. On a national level, you have a president who is telling the country to just work through it because it's not that bad. He was operating much like the companies ignoring the experts who say that working while sick is more financially harmful in the long run, then slight losses from having the first few people who get sick stay home. Trump ignored his advisers who told him to put in extreme measure to control the spread, the national equivalent of having sick people stay home.

He ignored the science, was influenced by his xenophobia and merely closed the borders (A good call, but he still allowed preferred countries, who already had the disease spread in their borders to come. We'll ignore how he didn't communicate with other countries before making this decision.). What he didn't take into account was the virus was spreading undetected for weeks already at that point, in a country where people are afraid to stay home when they are sick.

Trump was briefed months ago that this could potentially become a problem, and he ignored it. In the defense of many other countries, so did others. The dubious nature of this disease is that it's a problem before it's obvious. Still, by early-March, most of Europe and Asia, seeing how it ravaged Italy, South Korea, and China, were implementing extreme measures to keep this under control.
Here is where another systematic problem in the United States comes in. Many of these countries have well-established welfare systems (I'm going to ignore universal health care in this essay, because that's a whole other can of worms.) These are countries that understand that when extreme circumstances happen, the government may have to support the people. They knew that these measures would damage the economy, gut their treasury, but understood that NOT doing this would cause a widespread health crisis, resulting in thousands of deaths and hospitals that are ill-equipped. In America, you have millions of people out of work with little more than a one-time $1,200 payout. Helpful yes, but hardly the type of support that could have been offered if the general attitude of the country was that everyone should do their part to help society as a whole, instead of everybody for themselves. A country where taxes are being drastically cut for the upper crust, while the working class is being called lazy. And with as much absolute wealth the upper-class is going to lose in this crisis, it will amount to nothing compared to the relative losses that the working class is going to suffer. I'm clearly not an economist, but my armchair prediction is that countries with more distributed wealth are going to bounce back from this much quicker. And a lot of this is because they could send a significant portion of their workforce home early, yet maintain their buying power through a strong welfare system. In America, we're going to see mass-destitution. (I've since been corrected by some people on the internet and have had my attention raised to other new programs to assist those in need during this trying time. That's great news.)

So here we are in the beginning of April. Many of the countries who took action immediately before there was a problem have flattened the curve. People are still getting sick. People are still dying, but thankfully, the production of respirators and masks in many countries are (just barely) keeping up.
Back in the United States, they have finally put in the measures that most other countries did weeks ago, but only AFTER they have became the epicenter of the crisis. Thousands are dying daily and the numbers are growing exponentially. The president is still ignoring his advisers, giving false information to the country, bragging about how many people are watching his press conferences (mainly to find out what to do during worldwide emergency). In charge of this problem is not a panel of experts, but his son-in-law, a corrupt slumlord whose only business being in the White House is that he's banging a chick Trump thinks is hot. Yet, neither Trump nor Jared Kushner seem to understand how to read an exponential graph or know that it might be best to plan ahead. As states beg for ventilators, all Trump can do is accuse hospitals of stealing supplies, or states of lying about their needs. He's mobilized a handful of factories to make ventilators, but he's done it well after the need for them had been established.

Thus enters another major incompatibility. The fighting of a disease like this need to be a controlled centrally in a focused effort, but we have a country where half the population is petrified of a strong central government, and it is run by an administration that been systematically dismantling the programs and offices that would be best able to handle this crisis.

Now we have states scrambling to get things under control. Some states are taking things seriously. Others ignoring the problem. This lack of focus is doing little to contain the disease or create any concerted, unified effort to get things under control. When the government should be handling the orders and the distribution of ventilators and other necessary medical equipment, keeping prices under control and making sure that the ones with most need are being taken care of, instead, states are being forced to bid against each other in a free market that is inflating the prices, letting a few companies get insanely rich at the height of this crisis. Another example of how the American system is just not set up for the reality of this pandemic, and why it's so tragic we have a business man running the country.

Trump is refusing to take responsibility for his actions and is already creating the narrative that anybody who wants criticize him is wasting valuable time that should be used to solve the problem. And I agree, now is not the time for finger-pointing—at least not on the government level. Those of us stuck at home unemployed can handle that work). But when this is all over, America needs to take a good look and decide if this is the system they want, if this is the leader they want. He didn't make the virus. The pandemic is not his fault. This would have hit no matter what he did. This would have been an uphill battle for anyone in his shoes, because of the systematic issues I've mentioned. But there should be nobody in this world who doesn't see how much he bungled this whole ordeal. And it's tragic that so many people have to die because of it.

Overland Track Chronicles: The Whole Chronicle (10 years later)

Foreword to the 2020 edition:

The inclusion of this foreword may kill a bit of the suspense of the story, I guess. Since I'm here almost eleven years later writing an introduction, that means I did not actually die on that mountain in Tasmania. Though, the fact that I'd written it at all solidified that particular cat-in-a-box anyway.

Little did I realize how much this particular week of my life would influence everything that came after. I do not wish to explore any philosophical discussion about how every decision one makes irreversibly influences all future outcomes. This is the second reference to philosophical quantum physics in as many paragraphs. I'll try to reduce this from here on out.

This whole ordeal started a continuing trend of starting, but not finishing some of the greatest hikes of the Southern Hemisphere. For a month, I drove around New Zealand, parked in the trail heads and walked for a couple hours in, then out. The winter and my continued lack of proper gear prevented any deeper venture into kiwi wilderness, a place I hope to return someday.

This disaster did not kill my love for hiking, it further spiked it. I began scanning Lonely Planets for other excursions I could probably fail at. I tried numerous overnight excursions in the BWCA. I started to slowly build up acceptable gear, and some muscle mass. No, I never morphed into some super hiker, but I read A Walk in the Woods. Also, I learned to respect the trail, not to take mountains so lightly. I had developed a thirst and it was the inspiration for my second year-long world travelling experience. Ever since I was a kid, I'd always wanted to hike in the Himalaya and my failure in Tasmania pushed me to not fail again. And I didn't. I trained, trained hard. I rugged up, for real this time. And the result is that I finished a 24-day, 300 km hike high in mountains of Nepal. Then another two-week hike in another region of the country.

Now, I live in on the west coast of Norway, in a climate very similar to what I faced in Tasmania. Reading back over my adventure has been almost laughable at how naive and frankly wimpy I was then. If I were to do that hike now, I doubt it would pose much a challenge. It's ironic that even though I'm stronger now than I ever was then, I'd be less likely to attempt anything so mental. I know I'm not invincible and this was instrumental in showing me this.

This hike also had one more major impact on my life. This series yielded my first ever publication. A hiking website (that no longer exists, sadly) used my writing as the basis for a "what to expect" when doing this trail. Yes, my stupidity was (not-so)immortally preserved in a reference of the things you should NOT do when hiking in the wilderness of Tasmania.

This helped bring a lot more traffic to my blog, and thus praise. It was the first moment I actually thought that there may be value to the things I write. Still, it took me another four years to start submitting writing for publication and another two to get my creative work published. I've since taken a hiatus from my literature career, but I still write. I'll never stop writing.

So, sit back and enjoy the adventures of a 26-year old me as I risk my life in mountains of Tasmania.

Overland Track Chronicles Part One: Ruggin' Up

It started with a simple sale. Friday Frenzy at Jetstar, flights for ridiculous prices, every Friday 4-8PM. I checked it out last December. A particular flight jumped out at me, Sydney to Tasmania, May 12th, $59 each way. It was so cheap, how could I pass it up? At the time $144 after taxes and fees seemed like a steal. Little did I know that a simple mouse click would change my life and bank account forever.

This was back in the days when I feared traveling alone, so I held my week long Tasmanian experience as a simple place holder, a guarantee that I wouldn't freak out and give up on my travels until May. It was a harmless enough thought. I know myself; unless I have some skeleton, even a cheap flight, I would have potentially cowered away back to Broken Hill, declaring traveling was too expensive, too tiring, too unstructured, too lonely. I've mastered the art of using rationalization to back away from challenges. This Tasmania trip was to be the courage I needed to stick it out.

It wasn't until I was in the natural splendor of North Queensland that the Tasmania trip became something completely different, something real. My original plan was to simply meet a couple of like-minded travelers in Launceston, rent a car, and tour the island for a week. This was until I picked up my Lonely Planet after a North Queensland waterfall hike. Being surrounded by rain forests that dwarf a man forces one to see how small we are. I was in just the right frame of mind for what jumped out on page 694: the Overland Track, five days, 80km, some of the most amazing scenery in the world.

I've always been an outdoorsy person at heart, definitely the product of my heredity. The idea of roughing it, being out there alone with nature has always held a very specific place in my soul. In practice however, his has been a different story. I may be an Eagle Scout. I may love to camp, hike, fish. I may have joined the BSA for this very reason, but really, I'm not a fanatic. My adult life has bred me into a city boy who merely takes a couple overnight excursions on weekends, a few times a year. I really do love nature, I just prefer a hot shower more. The waterfalls of North Queensland helped me rediscover this nature loving part of me again.


It all made sense: Hiking. I was to become a true hiker, not some day tripper. It would be me alone with only my backpack full of food. The stories of my father, Uncle John and Steve, and Carlos came to mind. Why live such experiences vicariously? Page 694 lit my path. I was to do my first multi-day hike for the duration of my Tasmania trip.

There existed one major obstacle to this seemingly easy task: I was completely unprepared. Believe it or not, and I must say I was on the latter end of this, but Australia does experience winter, especially in the South. Now, by "winter", I mean that Australia has the laughably cold daytime temperature of 60 degrees Fahrenheit and at night, drops to the Jack Londonesque 35 degrees. "That's cold enough to see your breath, mate!" This shouldn't be too daunting for a hearty native Minnesotan such as myself, but eight months in Australia's perfect weather has me grabbing my jacket when it drops below seventy. Although the temperatures are mild, I'd still need to "rug up" as the Aussies say. I had to start from scratch since I was only equipped with beach clothing. I also needed essential camping gear.

I started by making a simple mental list: tent, stove, cotton long johns, winter jacket, hat, gloves, and a cheap oversized raincoat. It was fortunate I was in Sydney. Word on the street, or the nearest travel agent, was that Kent St. was riddled with camping and hiking stores. This proved to be more than a rumor. There were more camping stores on Kent St. than whores and junkies at King's Cross.

I walked into the first one, wearing my patented, "I'm not ignorant" face.

"Can I help you?" the friendly Indian clerk asked.

"Well, yes sir, yes you can. I'm doing the Overland Track this week and I need to get rugged up and outfitted."

"Ok mate. So what do you need specifically, shoes, tent, jacket?"

"Yes."

"Ok, um...let's start with tents." He led me to the fabled land of fancy tents. "This here is a great one-man tent, completely waterproof, wind proof, good to temperatures of minus 15 degrees Celsius, aluminum poles (he said alumin-um, just like an American). Feel this." He handed me the tent. It weighed as little as a small package of pork chops; it almost fit in my pocket. "One kilo. Lifetime warranty."

"Wow!"

"Wow indeed. And this is a steal! Oh, and it is my last one as well. $400" He noticed my not-ignorant face failing.

"You won't find a tent like this with a lifetime warranty, for that price anywhere else." (And this proved to be true. Most similar tents were up to $1000) "Shop around mate. I'll set this aside for you when you come back." $400! My budget only allowed me $50-100.

Without hesitation, he led me to a corner that was a forest of hangers with only rainjackets. "It rains a lot in Tasmania, so you'll need a good shell layer. This jacket here is 100% rain and wind proof. Feel it. Real gortex."

Mmmm gortex. I felt the smooth, yet rubbery sleeve and subtly turned the affixed price tag to my direction. $800.

"So will this keep me warm as well?" I asked.

"Oh no, sir!" The finality of his answer jabbed a hole right through what was left of my not-ignorant face. "This is just a shell layer. You'll need a good fleece jacket, coat, and of course (chuckle) thermals. I mean you at least have thermals right?"

"Of course!" I began nodding my head incessantly as I backed out of the store, directly into the next one only one meter away. What the hell is a thermal?

The woman at the next store looked much less threatening, though it may have been her pretty brown eyes. She did not seemed shock to see me walking backwards into her store.

"I'm doing the Overland Track this week; are these shoes going to cut it?" I pointed to my sneakers.

She turned her brown eyes to me with a sympathetic smile. "No, it is muddy, rainy, cold. The last thing you want is to spend a week walking with wet feet." Simple enough logic. She directed me to the giant wall of $300 shoes.

Out of the side of my eyes, in a far off corner, obscured by freeze dried lasagna and cooking stoves smaller than my fist, I saw my favorite word: Clearance.

"What about these over here; are these any good?" I asked.

"Well...they're ok. They're not gortex though."

"Will they keep my feet dry?"

"You might want to waterproof them first."

"I'm a size 9."

"I'll see what I have." She came back, handed me the shoes and gave me a bit of look over. She could see that I was quite green. "So you're going to Tasmania? You do have a good pair of thermals right?"

I couldn't fool the granola goddess. "No. Do you have any in gortex?"

"They don't make thermals out of gortex. We have two main kinds, thermalux and polypro."

I stared back at her blankly.

"Thermalux is warmer, won't stink as bad when you're done." They were also $70 a pair. Given the constant mentioning of thermals by these hiking store proprietors, I knew they'd be necessary. I bought a polypro top and bottom for $40 in a buy one get one sale.

I knew that to miraculously become Super Backpacker Man, it was going to blow my budget. Already I had spent nearly $200 and all I had to show for it were non-gortex boots and the sub-par, polypro long johns. To do this on a budget, I'd need to improvise. First off, I didn't need a fancy tent; hell, I probably didn't need a tent at all, considering the heated huts scattered every seven miles or so. A simple thirty dollar tent would suffice. Gaiters? What's wrong with some garbage bags and rubber bands?

I found a cheap rain jacket for sale at a random Sydney shop for $40. When I got to Launceston, I bought my stove, fleece coat, fleece gloves, tent and some wool socks at the local K-mart. I wasn't a Super Backpacker Man, but I think I was alright. My trip hadn't even started and I was craving a hot shower.

Overland Track Chronicles Part 2: Freaking Out

As the hike approached, I was starting to get a little freaked out. It was the little things that began pushing me over the edge: the sad dopey smiles when I mentioned the hike to locals or off-hand comments such as "Brave man, this time of year." "For your poor mother's sake, be sure to register the hike and tell lots of people you are going!"

By the time I reached Launceston, my anxiety level was at a valium prescription levels. I checked into my room at the hostel, room 13 (dunh dunh duh), and started packing all the food and gear I would need for six days in the mountains. After trying on my bag, I knew it was going to be too heavy. I looked through everything I had, but I couldn't find anything I could imagine leaving behind. I just had to sleep on it.

That night though, I didn't sleep, not even for a minute. I tossed, turned and froze to death under my pile of blankets in the heated Tasmanian room. Launceston isn't even in the mountains. I already knew my light summer sleeping bag would not be enough, even when fully clothed. I thought of my gear, my garbage bag gaiters, my lack of sleeping mat. Why did I buy potatoes?

I rolled out of bed at 5:59, yelling at my 6:00 alarm to wake up. I saw that it was the morning of May 13th (duhn duhn duh!!!!). I repacked my bag, cut back on some of the food, tossed out my potatoes. I removed the one pair of comfort clothing I saved for my first night off the mountain and cut back on a few other odds and ends. The bag was still too heavy, but it was at least manageable.

I still wasn't content. I threw on my hiking boots and headed to the 24hour Kmart for a camping mat. Freezing to death from no ground insulation was not the way I wanted to kick it. I walked a half block before I hit another obstacle to my coming hike: my ankles were in intense pain.

Since I purchased the boots only two days before the hike, I wanted to make sure they were broken in, therefore, I wore them all through my afternoon with Joe and Diane, then again the morning of the flight for my 10km whirlwind tour of Sydney. In the end, all this walking did little to break in my boots and left me feet and ankles incredibly sore, just in time for the hike.

I got lost on the way to the bus station and arrived just 10 minutes before departure. Just the mere 1km of walking left me limping. I was scared and in pain; I cancelled my bus.

It took a mere moment to realize I wasn't happy with this decision. I needed guidance, so I called my father. It is unclear what advice I was hoping to receive that morning, be it "a just go for it!"or a "Son, it is ok to give up when it is a dangerous situation." I received the most level-headed wise advice only a father can give, "You're just not used to the high backing of the boots. Your feet will probably feel better after a day or so. Take it one day at a time. If after a day, it seems too risky, just turn back." He finished with the ultimate John White: Father line that has echoed through my head for 26 years of my life, "Just keep yourself out of situations of unnecessary risk." I knew he'd say that.

It was sound advice. I rebooked my bus with a minute to spare and set up a back up plan if I needed to turn back; the next bus back to Launceston from the start of the trail was Monday.

Three hours later, I arrived and Cradle Mountain National Park, ready to go, pain or not. I caved in a bought some actual rain pants at the inflated middle-of-nowhere price of $60. It was raining a little at the trail head, but I was well prepared. I took a deep breath and went forward on my first step of the Overland Track.

Overland Track Chronicles Interlude: The Overland Track

I've talked around the Overland Track, but I never took the time to explain what it is. The Overland Track is one of the world's most famous hikes, up there with the Inca Trail in Peru and the Milford Track in New Zealand. It lies within the Cradle Mountain-Lake St. Clair National Park in Tasmania, stretching 75km between the two natural landmarks. Most of the trail is in the mountains, exposed to the elements. Since the trail is so popular (8000 or so walkers a year), it is very well maintained, with lots of boardwalks and heated huts placed about every 10km. The scenery is much like that of New Zealand's South Island, rugged, sculpted mountains, hidden crystal clear glacial lakes, and waterfalls everywhere.

Most people hike during the summer when the daylight hours stretch a bit longer and there is less chance of snow, though it can snow any time of year. Tasmania's mountains are famous for being sunny one second and blizzard the next. Many hikers leave on a sunny day, unprepared, without raingear or warm clothing and die when trapped in a snowstorm. I was undertaking it in mid-May, when you don't have to pay the $150 fee, but have to deal with less desirable weather and very short days. Some mountaineers only undertake the trail in the middle of winter, when snow is inevitable, just to avoid the traffic.

Despite the weather and dangers, the trail remains a constant draw for tourists. It holds some the most unique and beautiful scenery in the world and stands as the essential way to experience the natural wonders of Tasmania. How could I pass that up?

Overland Track Chronicles Part Three: Day One

My embarkation was greeted with gentle rain, which quickly subsided as I moved further onto the trail. The traditional starting point for the trail is Ronnie Creek, but I'm a non-traditional type guy, so I started at Dove Lake. They are both the same distance, but Dove Lakes's trail is much steeper. I didn't realize this when I chose the route.

Though my ankles still hurt, once I started moving a bit, the rush of the whole thing killed a lot of the pain. That and paracetamol.

Within an hour, I was exhausted. Hiking typically never tires me, but I quickly realized that I had underestimated the weight of a 50lb backpack, especially when climbing continuously uphill. I sat for a moment and looked down at the amazing blue waters of the many glacial lakes below. The view was stunning. This was going to be an unforgettable experience for sure!

The trail twisted further up the mountain until it wound round to the other side. Then the wind hit, gusty, cold mountain wind, strong enough to knock a child off its feet. A couple hundred meters further and it was raining again. By the time I reached Marion's Lookout, highlight of the park's day trips, it was impossible to see a thing. I didn't even bother to look, especially since I didn't want to get blown off the mountain. At least since I was at the top, I didn't have to climb anymore.

Over the next 2km, the weather got increasingly worse. The rain went from small drops, to big drops, to sleet, until it finally decided to peak at BB sized hail. I overtook a fellow hiker who had done the trail a couple of times before. He informed me that a shelter was only 15 minutes walk away. 35 minutes later, we finally reached the shelter and escaped the pelting hail.

"Oh boy, how about that weather." I said to the man.

"Oh boy is right, mate." He removed his hood to reveal he was an elderly man in his seventies. "I think I'll eat a quick warm lunch and move on."

"Continue on? Isn't this the hut?"

"Oh no, this is just Kitchen Hut, an emergency shelter. The first overnight hut is another two hours further on."

That put me at just more than halfway done with the day. I was already exhausted: my back hurt, my ankles hurt, and one layer of face had been not so carefully removed by unhindered, blowing precipitation. There was thankfully only 30 minutes left on the open mountain face. The trail was well maintained at this point; it was nothing but continuous boardwalk above the creeks and rocks, a trail marker jutted up every ten feet. This seemed a bit obsessive: I can't imagine a person getting lost on top of a boardwalk.

The trail descended into a eucalyptus forest below. The trees blocked much of the wind and the rain had finally stopped. Everything was foggy, but occasionally, I caught a quick glimpse of the craggy mountain peaks to my left. The Tasmanian vegetation was quite unique; it almost seemed like a different planet. It was mostly green with rusty-orange scrub popping up everywhere, moss and peat covering all the rocks between. Spirofix and eucalyptus dotted the landscape all the way down into the valley below.

The trail twisted around the mountain and finally descended into the aptly named Waterfall Valley. The valley was nestled by high cliffs to all sides, each with waterfalls gushing the rain and meltwater into the creek beds at the bottom. The fog was too thick to see this, but it didn't obscure the most beautiful sight of the day, the first hut! With darkness swiftly approaching, it was four in the afternoon after all, it could not have come any sooner.

I collapsed upon opening the door. I just wasn't in enough shape for this first day of climbing, but a good night's sleep would hopefully give me the strength for the next. The hut was quite nice, with wooden bunks to sleep 25 and a gas heater to dry off all of our gear. Even with a rain jacket, rain pants, fleece coat, hooded sweatshirt, t-shirt, and jeans, I was soaked all the way down to my thermals. I had a backpack cover over my water resistant backpack, but this proved useless: everything in my pack was wet. That day, even the super backpackers, with their $1000 dollar backpacks and special waterproof covers learned the lesson that "waterproof" is a myth.

There were about seventeen of us that first night, all with similar dilemmas, so the heater space for drying gear was quite full. After a bit of talking, we all hit the sack around 7:30. My sleeping bag did in fact prove to too thin for the conditions; even with a dry pair of jeans, stocking cap, polypro thermals (shoulda got thermalux), winter coat and four pairs of socks, I was absolutely freezing. The heater, although adequate for drying clothes, did little for making the hut warmer. It also turned off 45 minutes to save gas. Since I didn't sleep, I gave myself the responsibility of turning it back on whenever it died. Eventually, curled in a little ball, I finally slept for an hour. I dreamed of being in Jack London story with wet matches.

Overland Track Chronicles Part Four: Day Two

This was to be the big day. The park system planned the huts quite oddly for the second leg of the hike. For the most part, there lies a hut every 10km, but the second hut is a easy-grade 7.5km from the first. The third hut, however, is 17.5km further. In order for me to successfully complete the hike in five days and catch my bus at the other end, I would need to reach the third hut on the second day, a wicked 25km trek. Not a challenge unladen, but with a 50lb pack, this is quite a push.

My ankles still ached, but there was little I could but take more painkillers and deal with it. I got an early start and headed out on the simple 2 hour hike to Windermere Hut. I was allowed no grace period of weather like on the previous day; it rained from the second I left the door. A mere five minutes down the track, the trail was flooded by a swift creek. I walked to the right and found no crossing that proved narrower than the trail. To the left, I found a seven food jump across some rapids five feet below. It was a completely doable jump, but not worth the probable broken leg from jumping in such wet, slippery conditions. The trail was the only reasonable option. It didn't look too deep anyway. One foot in and I realized it was deceptively knee deep.

I jumped out of the creek, gave it the finger, and stomped through the pouring rain back to the hut and threw my fifty pound pack in the corner.

"I'm done! It's cold, rainy, everything is wet, it's too f**king foggy to see anything, and there is a f**king knee deep creek right at the start of this horrible day. Now, I'm going to have to walk with wet feet for the next 25km. I paid $1000 to do this piece of s#$t walk and it has been nothing but one... big...f**king...disappointment. I'm not putting up with this. I'm going back. That's it. F%$k this s*&t!"

The others at the hut were not really expecting such a tirade, especially minutes into the second day of the hike. It was clear I was weak. Everyone just kept on eating the breakfast in uncomfortable silence, until a young German woman finally asked the one question on everyone's mind. "Is there any way around this knee deep creek?"

"No!"

Five minutes later, I had my socks wrung out, I had my clothes put back on and was ready to move on.

"Good luck dude. Sorry you don't want to go on. It's supposed to clear up in a couple of days."

"Oh, I'm not turning back; I'm going on. I just needed to swear a lot. I'm not letting a bloody creek keep me from doing this stupid hike." This was greeted back with confused looks. They must have thought I was bipolar. But I wasn't going to be defeated, I just needed to let off some steam. So, I instantly threw myself back into the rain and built myself up to face the stupid creek.

I started chanting to myself. "Just a creek. Just some rain. Just some fog...it's gonna get nicer. Only 17 miles to go today." 

I stood at the symbolic creek and thought of a plan of action. I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my hems and waded barefoot through the icy cold water. Seconds after putting my boots and wool socks back on, my feet were warm again. It really wasn't worth the spastic reaction I gave it.

I can't say as I remember seeing anything at all for the next 7km. After the creek, the trail went back up to the top of the valley and back into the wind for a 5km marathon of constant wind, rain, and sleet. All I could see was the ground as I marched forward, my hood pulled constantly over my face. Every time I dared to look up, all I could make out through the rain and fog was maybe the possibility of what could potentially be something that had a chance of being pretty. I did learn a great new skill that day: maneuvering rocks using only monocular depth perception cues. This was essential since half my face needed to be covered from the horizontal rain and sleet at all times.

The day's view

The creek proved to be among the better patches of the trail that day. The 36 hours of continuous rain had flooded the entire thing. The line between trail/puddle/creek/raging waterfall became quite blurry after a point. The highlight was the unavoidable 100 meter slog through knee deep water. 

The trail eventually went down into another valley, finally sheltering me from the wind, but it did little to prevent the rain. The horrible weather made the estimated 1.5-2 hour section last over three hours. By the time I reached the Windermere Hut, there wasn't enough time to make it to the next hut before dark. I was so wet, cold, and tired anyway, I doubt I would have gone on, even if I did have the time.

About five people did continue, despite the time. The next leg was estimated at five hours; with the weather though, it was sure to be inflated to six or seven. That put their arrival time well past dark. I hope they made it.

I removed my completely wet gear and went into my backpack for my dry change of clothing. Even after repacking everything in garbage bags, my clothes were still damp. The left me with no dry clothes and the temperature was quickly dropping.

Within minutes, I was shivering uncontrollably and started feeling a bit faint. I could tell I was showing the early symptoms of hypothermia. I threw on my fleece coat even though it was wet. That is one thing I love about polar fleece, it is the amazing fabric that maintains warmth, even when wet. To the person who invented polar fleece: if male, give me your hand in an extension of fraternal brotherhood and love. If female, please give me your hand in eternal matrimony: you may have kept me alive that die. Nobody else in the hut had any spare dry clothing themselves but they helped me move a bench to get close to the heater. I ate some dried fruit, drank some water and cooked some hot soup. By the time I sipped the last drop, my thermals were dry and I had gotten back to a safe homeostasis.

I looked at the map, did some revised math and realized that unless I walked the 20km for the next two days straight, I would never make it to my bus on time. There was a Tuesday bus back to Launceston from the end, but this would leave me with too little time to shower and pack before my evening flight to Sydney. I had no other choice but to turn back.

That night, I played a bit of cards with some fellow walkers. After a while, we were yawning and ready for bed. We did a round of guessing the time.

"9:00?" "I'd say 8:15." "9:30" I seconded the guess of 9:00. It was 6:45. I crawled into bed to enjoy my first good sleep in three days. It was a warm night.

The Overland Track Chronicles Part Five: Day Three

I awoke the next morning to the heaviest rain we'd had the whole hike. All but three were continuing on with the 18km day ahead of them. They didn't have the luxury of waiting out the downpour. Nobody was burning to go out there.

I bid them all farewell and had a relaxing warm breakfast with Brian the 72-year-old I'd met a couple days prior and another older bloke who was walking the opposite direction. He had walked the trail twelve times already in his life.

"So, do you normally go during this time of year?"

"Oh yeah," He said. "This is the best time to go; nobody's on the trail."

"So, is the weather typically this bad?"I asked.

"Oh god no! No. Nah, it's usually much much worse than this, this time of year. Nah. Normally we'd have had some snow."

It scared me to think that the conditions tossed at me thus far were actually a blessing. The faces of all those people I excitedly told my hiking plans suddenly made sense. The horror, shock, or sympathy, all didn't seem so extreme anymore. Brian was also knocked down by the hiker's news. The previous night, Brian had slept in a tent in the rain, instead of the hut. Everything he owned, including sleeping back was soaked. His body was not forgiving him for the prior two days' punishment. He was cramping, worn-down, cold. Instead of pushing on that day, he decided to rest another day. This was an option I chose to wave, despite the inconceivably worse weather that day. Since I was not going forward, I wanted to head back and see all the various side trails along the way I had passed up. One of the beauties of the Overland Track is the myriad of summit climbs, lake tracks, and other extra bits to help make everyone's experience a little different. To do them all, it would take weeks.

I left the hut around nine, during a semi-dry spell. I even had the bravery to take out my camera for some photos of Windermere Lake. It was another short day, so I decided to walk the extra kilometer to Lake Will. These plans were all until the continuous two-and-a-half hour downpour that hit without warning. The rain was accompanied by even stronger winds than I'd seen the previous two days. By the time I reached the trail to Lake Will, I was determined to get back to Waterfall Valley as quickly as possible.

Despite even worse weather, the walk back was much more pleasant without the dread of knowing I had to walk 25km in a day. The fog was clearer and I was able to see a bit more of the countryside. It was almost a completely different walk. It was still a head-down ordeal; the first landmark I recognized was the hole in the chicken wire gripping upon the boardwalk.

The rain saturated my boots so much, I didn't even hesitate walking through the even deeper creeks that gave me such anger the previous days. The view from the bluff above the Waterfall Valley was stunning. I was blessed with about one minute of no rain, so I was able to snap another quick photo.

I arrived back at Waterfall Valley hut slightly after noon. Within an hour, the weather turned even worse, with the rain and wind getting continuously stronger throughout the afternoon until that evening's blizzard.

My feet were so cold that night, I started experimenting with various numbers and configurations of socks. In the process, I stumbled across the Sock Paradox©: any pair of socks over two makes your feet colder, because lack of circulation causes the feet to sweat, thus making the socks damp and more cold eventually. I worked through the physics of this until I fell asleep.

I awoke in the middle of the night with the startling discovery that the Socks Paradox was in fact a myth. Once I donned my fifth pair of socks, wrapped my feet in a sweater, put the bottom of my sleeping bag in a canvas shopping bag, I was able to make my feet merely cold. It was a long, blustery night. The pummeling wind tested the structural integrity of the cabin.

Overland Track Chronicles Part Six: Day Four

The snow changed the landscape completely. The morning was clear, crisp, and the wind was barely blowing. I stepped outside to see my first snow in over a year and breathed the long forgotten, yet always familiar smell of winter. The fog had lifted and I made the startling realization, "Hey, there's a mountain right there!" It was the jagged Barn Bluff, one of the two treacherous climbs I could have taken that day, had there not been snow.

I wasn't the only person who had a cold night. A young British bloke spent the night with merely a blanket. His one pair of socks was soaked from the previous day's walk. The sneakers he brought were still wet and he had no rain coat. The temperature was below freezing that day. Despite this, he pushed on. This is how people die.

There was a young couple watching me eat my breakfast agape. "Are you drinking coffee out of a ceramic mug?" Theirs' were made of lightweight plastic.

"Yeah. It's the only one I have."

"And you just have a regular stainless steel saucepan?" They were eating some sort of just-add-water concoction out of an aluminum mess kit.

"Yep. Gotta cook out of something."

"So last night, I noticed you had three fresh tomatoes in your bag."

"Vitamin C!"

"HOW HEAVY IS YOUR PACK?!"

I sipped my coffee as shamelessly as I could sham. "Way too heavy my friend. Way...too...heavy." At least I wasn't the Dutch guy with a backpack full of canned soup.

I headed out early into what was the easiest day of the trip. The previous day's rain was testing and wet. The wind could blow the soul out of the body. But snow? I'm Minnesotan, damn it! I may not have 52 different names for the stuff, but if there is anything I know, its snow. I spotted patches of ice meters away. I dodged every sink hole and bypassed every buried creek. I was in my element, until I reached the top of the mountain.

Suddenly, I found myself in North Dakota mid-blizzard or maybe on top of mountain mid-blizzard, same difference. I pushed forward through knee-deep snow, which was good, because it stabilized me from being toppled by the wind. I was glad it was only a couple of miles back to Kitchen Hut.

Inside the Kitchen Hut, I found an Aussie family from Brisbane, with a twelve year old child. They started the previous day, but got trapped from the excessive winds. I was actually quite glad to see them safe and alive; other hikers the previous night had told me of this family.

They decided to head back to the park with me, so we headed out into the blizzard. At first it wasn't too bad, but after fifteen meters, the wind came back with a vengeance, the strongest I've faced on the trail. Being from Queensland, the boy had never seen snow before, now he was stuck in Antarctica.

They wisely turned back for the hut. I, however, had a mission. I was to get off this mountain and nothing was going to stop me. Mountain top blizzard? I don't care...I've faced worse getting the mail in Clara City.

The trail was sheet of frozen snow. I slowly duck-walked my way forward, occasionally curling into a ball when the gusts were too strong to allow me to stand. I found the strength to go on by screaming at the top of my lungs while I pushing into the wind and snow, ten feet at a time. There was nobody to see me walking at a 45 degree angle, screaming "AGHHHHHHHHH!!!!" at the top of my lungs. I could not even see a few feet in front of me, but I still recognized where I was; I was upon that wooden boardwalk with the excessive trail markers I noted days earlier. The purpose was now relevant. There was no boardwalk, just endless drifts of snow.

I made decent time considering, hiking those treacherous two miles in just one hour. I may have complained earlier about the cost of all the winter gear, but it was worth every dollar; they very possibly saved my life that day. The Overland Track continued on the windward side for its steep descent off the side of the mountain. I started on the track, but when a gust almost tumbled me off a cliff into the glacial lake below, I composed myself, got up and chose a more sheltered route. As I walked only ten feet off the famous Overland Track, the wind stopped, the snow stopped; all was calm. The sun was shining and I was greeted by blue skies. It was surreal.

Every step further down the mountain brought me closer to spring. The snow was melting off the needles, dripping into puddles and creeks of meltwater. The trail was flooded of course, the only fitting way to end my horrible hike. I joyfully squished my way through the trail, merely laughing at the lake in my boots. It didn't matter, I was going to have a warm shower anyway.

By the time I reached the caravan park, I could barely walk. My pack pushing me down, I literally crawled to my dorm room. That night, drifting off to sleep in my much too hot room, I closed my eyes and wished myself back into the mountains, experimenting with sock combinations, listening to the wind outside, glad I was inside the freezing hut. There is just no winning. At the same time, it was awfully nice to sleep in a bed.

(Afterward to this part: That family I passed in the Kitchen Hut actually found this blog and reached out to tell me that even though the the blizzard had trapped them in the hut for two days, they eventually managed to turn back and safely get home. This did not kill their love for hiking.)

The Overland Track Chronicles Part Seven: Success, Failure, Rationalization, or Acceptance?

As I hiked 20km of random trails around the park the next day, unladen, clean, without pressure, I had lots of time to digest the last four days. This was a new experience for me; going out, setting a goal, taking steps to complete it, and failing. I've led quite a charmed, successful life. If I ever wanted to do anything, I just did it, no problems. It has taken me a while to realize that it isn't that I am particularly good at completing goals, I'm just good at choosing goals that I know I can complete.




Becoming an Eagle Scout, graduating from college with honors, successfully running a business, these are not small feats, but not really challenges for me. We all have strengths and weaknesses and the things with which I've had success play on my strengths. Other things, such as simply playing bass guitar for fun, compiling writing just to submit for publication, even jogging for ten minutes a day are difficult for me. My general strategy for dealing with potential challenges is not trying.

That is why this trip has been a success for me, because I started the hike.

In the past, I would have just stayed at that bus station, with no hit to my ego...."eh, the weather is too bad. I wasn't prepared enough. Going on that hike would have been a stupid move. People die up there!" And those thoughts would have been justified; they're all true statements. (I should also thank my father for the push as well.)


So no, I didn't finish the hike. Could I have finished and still caught my flight home? Maybe. I'm sure I could have finished the trip in six days and hitchhiked back to Launceston in time, but that's a stupid move. True be told, I was not prepared enough, especially once the snow fell. My sleeping bag was a death trap. I packed stupidly. Most of all, I learned that just because I'm the most fit out of all my friends does not actually make me fit. Especially not enough to complete a five-day mountain trek.





I'm not happy that I'm just doing day hikes around Cradle Mountain, instead of kicking back, admiring Lake St. Clair, but I'm much happier than I would have been sitting on a pile of expensive gear, watching the bus pull away.

I failed!

I went out there, attempted something I knew was hard, and got knocked on my ass. But guess what, at least for once in my life, I attempted something difficult for me. This is why I booked the trip to Tasmania in the first place. That's growth...right? Or is this just rationalization? Either way, I'll take it.

20 things I've learned in 2019

Jeremy Callner, an acquaintance of mine does this every year and I keep meaning to try my hand at it. Now I've finally sat down and done it.

1. I've fully accepted that my preferred lifestyle is not compatible with children.
2. I would be perfectly content hiking every day, rain or shine.
3. My constant hiking has actually made me an above average trail runner in hilly terrain. I'm still slow on flat ground.
4. I will never be fluent in Hungarian.
5. I'll probably look back at my time in Budapest as some of the best years of my life.
6. Life in Norway is easier and much less stressful than Budapest and even though I'm “happier” in Norway, having a tough life really makes the good parts pop.
7. My productivity and free time are inversely proportional.
8. As time goes on, I become more and more a stereotypical married guy.
9. Films and series are barely able to hold my attention anymore, yet books still can. I'm worried about the day that books stop working too.
10. I am completely addicted to social media, yet I have no desire to actually quit.
11. The Mexican Revolution was a fascinating s$%tshow.
12. People are willing to pay me to write, as long as it's 1)funny and performed in front of a group of people -or- 2) They choose the topic.
13. The more I have to write things other want me to, the more I want to do something different.
14. Our dog has aggression and possessiveness issues and we can't blame it on his injury anymore. I have no idea how to fix this problem.
15. There is actually a practical age limit to the restaurant industry (at least as a cook or waiter in a busy restaurant) and I don't think I'm far away from it. Despite how much I love it, I need to lay down a plan to leave.
16. TGI Friday's really is the best company I've ever worked for.
17. Just because you open yourself to new friends that may end up living far away does not mean you lose “friend essence”. I need to stop being so guarded just because I'm nomadic, but I don't know how to do that because it's become such a reflex.
18. Stand up comedy really is pretty formulaic and it doesn't matter the language. Truly unique comics are few and far between. This does not mean that “standard” comedians are not funny.
19. If you want opportunities, sometimes it's just easy to create them for yourself. Chance are, if you want something, there are a good number of people who want the same thing. It's better to be the one profiting from it.
20. It's hard to actually make a profit with something and I'm not “capitalist” enough to do it. I need to work on that.

The Best Beer in the World

Beer isn't wine. Beside the obvious difference in ingredients, the mindset is different. People accept that wine is an agricultural product, influenced by the season. It's fine for a wine to be different every time. Great vintages become legend. Even though beer is just as much a result of a farmer's toil, the brewer is expected to streamline a process, find a level of consistency year after year to compensate for a bad crop. As a result, beer doesn't generate bottles that spark wonder. Rarity in beer is rare, most often the result of a self-created scarcity. Yet, there still exists one beer that does inspire. One beer that perks up the ears of most beer nerds. And I needed to try it.

Belgium is well known for its beer and among the most celebrated are the those of the Trappists. These are beer brewed by actual monks or at least brewed at a monastery. There are very specific rules on how to be labelled a Trappist beer, few of which actually have much influence on the quality of beer itself. (The other two rules besides being brewed by monks on a monastery is that the brewing is secondary to the the observance of God and is merely meant to be a fund-raiser for the operation of the monastery. All profit is thus donated to charity.) With the explosion of craft breweries, many of which were inspired by the Belgian traditions, Trappist beer has become big business and some of these breweries have ceased to be modest outfits, relatively. Some beer affectionatos even refuse to recognize Chimay or Westmalle as artesian products any more.

However, there is one Trappist monastery that has resisted the urge to upscale, distribute, ride the craft wave, and those are the monks of the Sint Sixtus Monastery, producers of Westvleteren. They only produce what is needed to support the abbey, around 5,000 hectolitres.

The procedure of obtaining their famous beers is a legend equal to the beer itself, either that or a joke. First, you must call their hotline, which is only open during certain hours. Given the beer's demand, it's not uncommon to sit on hold or meet busy signals for hours. Once you get through, you are allowed to order—and by order, I mean you basically reserve— maximum two cases of 24 at 2.50euro a bottle. The beer then must be physically picked up at the monastery, which lies in the middle of a field in the far reaches of Western Flanders, a stone's throw from the French border. This pick up can only be done during a short set time. One important condition of purchase is that you have to swear, quite literally before God, that you won't resell the beer.

A lot of people in the world have tried this beer, but very few of these have made it to the monastery, which shows how well the honor system is working out. It's not uncommon for people to call in, using a handful of fake aliases, then cart off with a van load, which gets sold off for upward of $50 a bottle. Considering that the monks control their prices and any profit they might make would be donated to charity, this is a serious moral affront.

But that's the allure of this beer. It's consistently voted among the best beers in the world (and sometimes, called THE best.), so opportunistic vendors and likewise buyers are both willing to spit on the good faith of these holy men who merely want to create something divine in the glass. They have “fought” back though. As of the summer 2019, they've put their reservations system online so that they can better control who gets divvied out their beer. You still have to pick it up at the brewery.

I'd had my own run in with the beer a few years ago. The sale of alcohol in Norway is strictly controlled by a government institution that has been self-dubbed “the wine monopoly”. Once or twice a year, they have a special beer release where they compile a selection of rare or limited edition beers from around the world and release them at certain stores around the country. On the the morning of one such release, I was casually browsing the list over a cup of coffee and dropped it to my table as if I'd found Kaiser Sose. Right on the page was Westvleteren 12. I ran out the door without changing out of my pyjamas, jumped on my wife's bike, and booked it to town. I frantically searched the beer cases that they'd haphazardly scattered on the floor of the store, looking for that iconic cap (the bottles themselves have no label). I found a clerk, basically grabbed his shirt and demanded to know where it was.

He removed my hands as if it was a normal occurrence to be assaulted by beer-obsessed customers and said in Norwegian, “you'd really like some that.”

I nodded.

“We sold out in 10 minutes. People were waiting outside since dawn.”

I was flabbergasted. Were there so many people in this small city who paid enough attention to these obscure beer releases, scoured the lists, and even knew enough to know the treasure that was this beer, that they'd sell out so quick?

As luck would have it, one of those people would become friends with me. Sure, he got some of the 12, but he wasn't willing to open those. He was only kind enough to share the 8. It was at a party hosted by my sommelier friends (yes, imagine the parties where there are no fewer than three wine sommeliers and myself, a beer sommelier, swirling and sniffing and sipping and soliloquying.) It was a fantastic beer and it only made me wonder what the 12 would be like. I knew that some day, I'd have to make the journey to Belgium.

Now, I'm not saying I wanted to go to Belgium for a single beer. There was a whole list. I'd been trying to convince my wife that Belgium was a great vacation spot for years.

“They eat french fries with mussles and mayonaise!” My wife doesn't eat mussels.

“Look at the medieval charms of Bruges!” My wife thought it looked like any number European cities.

“So much happened there. Waterloo. World War 1. That Wonder Woman movie.” She ignored me.

She knew the truth. A vacation to Belgium would be her driving me around from brewery to monastery, while I drank every new beer I found. So, I'm not proud of it (nor do I regret it), but since my summer job ended at the end of August, but my wife's placement went on until September, I took a solo vacation to Belgium. Before you get uppity about abandoning my wife to gallivant around and drink beer, just know that she'd taken a girls' trip earlier that year to Paris, leaving me to take care of the dog alone.

Sint Sixtus is located not far from the site of many horrible scenes of death: Ypres and Dunkirk are two of the most famous. So, it's a bit weird to see how peaceful, and simply mundane of an area it is, not so very different from where grew up myself. Yet, for beer lovers, it's hardly boring. It's the primary hop growing region of the country and Westvleteren is only one of many world class beer producers in a 20 mile radius. One could easily have a nice Beligian holiday only by travelling by train, but my desire to explore this area necessitated a car.

I did not pre order the beer by phone, mainly because I was flying on to Hungary and I didn't have space for 24 beers. Unlike many, I wished to respect the monks' request to not resell it. There is one other channel to get the beer. The monks own a small cafe across from the monastery where they serve the beer. There is no guarantee that they'll have the beer. Many have made the journey only to drive away disappointed. I was willing to take this risk.

I arrived in Popperinge, met by rain. It was far to early to start sipping 10% ABV beer, so I made a visit the fantastic hop museum, a must visit for anyone even remotely interested in hop harvesting. The gift shop had a great selection of the local beers, but the crown jewel was not there. (Naturally, this is quite subjective as they had St. Bernardus Abt another top quadrupel, St. Bernadus Wit, which I consider the top example of the style, Hommelbier, which when fresh is the best hoppy beer in Belgium, among others). The prices were shocking. Some classic beers were there for less than 2 euro when they usually fetch close to five. Of course I had to buy a nice selection. When in Popperinge...

The monastery was only 2km from my BnB, and even with the help of GPS, I still got lost, made a few wrong, but lovely turns through roads no wider than the car. It took a good 20 minutes to get there. I'd even driven by not realizing I'd arrived. It was a modest place, hardly a home for one of the world's most beautiful beers. Now granted, this view was from the outside. It wouldn't surprise me if they kept the charm of the place insularly. Still, I reached my destination. It was time to find the beer.

I marched in to the cafe, found the gift shop and demanded (politely) some of the good stuff. He pointed to a wall of cases behind him, the logo on the boxes surprisingly modern looking. He asked with no trace of emotion or weight how many cases I'd like to have. I almost fell over. Behind him was the Mount Everest of beer experiences (Apologies to anyone who's actually climbed Mt. Everest. I merely rented a car to get here.) and there was no discernible limit to how much I could purchase. Yet, all I wanted was a single bottle to bring home and share with my friends.

(Now it's time for a short side note, a confession if you will. Two days earlier while walking around central Brussels, I found a small pop-up beer store with some wooden cases of Westvleteren in the window. I popped in and found a few bottles being sold for 16euro each. I talked to the clerk about Belgian beer for a glorious 20 minutes. We discussed the beer and whether it was advisable to buy an insurance bottle in the off-chance that the cafe was sold out. Being a vendor, he said yes. I had an internal debate about the morals of buying one. Heck, even the Norwegian government, among the most benevolent governments in the world, resold it. In the end, I was weak and bought one, which I instantly regretted. I only mention this out of the chronology because I simultaneously believe in honesty and building tension in stories.)

But the cafe only sold the beer in units of 6 (or to drink in the cafe, which was not advisable at 10% with a car). I'd already been collecting a selection of special beers to add for my cellar and bringing these with me would take up my full allotment. Yet, was there really anything wrong with have too much of the world's best beer?

I bought a six pack and and sat outside with a glass of their single/blonde while staring at the cornfield. That meant I was just one bottle away from completing the full trio. (The blonde was lovely btw. I didn't take notes, but from my memory, it was not the best I've tried, but was very good and refreshing with some nice toasty pilsner malt, a noticeable hop bite, and a touch of fruitiness from the yeast. I sat outside alone on a wet chair sipping away at this great beer as the rain cleared up, then took my glass inside, grabbed a whole box of my bucket list beer and drove back to the BnB.

Given all this context, one would expect that I'd rush out, crack open a bottle and tick that box, but I was hungry. “Coincidentally”, my accommodation was just across the street from a great beer cafe (I guess this is Belgium, so even in a settlement of 100 people, this is probably expected.) The waiter was also a beer sommelier, so he poured me samples of random curiosities and did his best to geek out with me despite having to serve a busy restaurant. After I finished my stew with a bright, spritzy IPA, which was not an intuitive pairing, but worked, I walked back, ready for THE BEER.

It had begun to rain, so my plan of sitting in the complete silence of the garden, sipping under the stars got literally rained upon. I found myself in a Sideways moment (I'll let the reference sit here. If you haven't seen the film, I'll do my best not to drop any 15 year old spoilers), sitting on a bed inside. These were less than ideal circumstances, but the proprietor seemed to have the proper glass for each of the 20 local beers she sold (and Westvleteren 12 was on the list for 2,50 euro, though she was sold out).

I don't completely remember what the beer tasted like. I have my notes handy and at the bottom of all the specific descriptors, it says “very tasty”. Yet, writing this a year later, I can still close my eyes and see the sun sparkling off the rain sprinkled grass or the long shadows of the creeping hop vines on their wire supports. I remember that feeling of anticipation as I rounded each serpentine curve, wondering if I'd catch sight of the place that has been brewing such a beautiful beer for the last 80 years. And maybe that's the ultimate goal of the monks at Sint Sixtus with their anachronistic, strict rules of sale. These monks wake up in the same quaint compound every day in a field out in a flat expanse of the Flanders countryside, where these moments take an extra significance. If you want to truly try this beer, you have to come here and stand on the soil from which it sprung, stand before the image of Jesus himself and promise that this beer is only for those who make the pilgrimage. Otherwise, you're just ticking boxes and if that's all you want, then fine, cast away $50 for some brown barley water, but you're better off using that as a down payment on a Belgium trip. Because at that moment, sitting on a bed in a BnB in rural Flanders, it was the best beer in the world.