Last Tango in Toulouse (33 page)

We are greeted like heroes when we get to camp. Some of us just collapse into the tents without eating or drinking anything more. The kitchen crew want to make us breakfast – omelettes and toast – but by now we are all feeling a bit queasy. So they make aromatic clear soup with garlic and ginger. We sit in a daze sipping this comforting brew, then all go to our tents and sleep for most of the day. We are totally exhausted.

Late in the afternoon, as we rise, some locals arrive with cold beer to sell and we each buy a bottle. We sit around and discuss our ‘adventure', a sort of debriefing. From some of the conversations that were held during the night and earlier this morning, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the group decides that we should now give up, turn back and return to Pokhara. I am particularly concerned that the overnight experience has been traumatic for
Ros and Diane, so their attitude will be critical to the group decision.

As we talk through the whole episode, step by step from when we first realised we were lost, a common theme emerges. Everyone is proud of the way we reacted to the situation. There was no anger and no blame and no panic. We came together as a group and supported each other through the experience. We agree that it has been an inspirational moment in our lives, a confirmation of the human spirit. Instead of wanting to turn round and go back, the group is even more enthusiastic about going onwards and upwards. I am pleased. Even though we have lost a day, which means we will spend only one night at the top camp, there is a strong will to continue.

The trekking doesn't get any easier and we are all still drained from our night sleeping (or rather standing) rough in the forest. But we spend the next two days continuing the walk until we get to a camp, perched above the cloudline on hard ground with very little vegetation. We have reached an altitude close to 4000 metres and the air feels very thin. Ros, in particular, finds breathing uncomfortable, and everyone has a slight headache. It's also very cold and misty although every so often it clears and we have uninterrupted views of Annapurnas and Machapuchare. The view of the surrounding mountains is so spectacular that, despite the difficulties, we now know exactly why we have come. You cannot find yourself in such a wild, remote and beautiful place without actually going through the pain and pleasure of walking there. We realise, as we stand in a huddle, sipping our hot tea, that very few people in the world ever make it to such a place. It's a rare privilege and none of us is taking the experience for granted. The sherpas are particularly proud of Ros,
commenting that no seventy-one-year-old Nepali woman would climb to this altitude if she didn't need to, just to look at the view, as we are doing.

There is an optional extra climb the following morning, and we plan to start the downward trek after lunch. However, Ros and Diana are really feeling the effects of the altitude, so we split into three groups. They start the descent immediately after breakfast, the two Helens, Graham and Rose have a restful morning in camp and Cheryl and I do the optional extra climb. It's up a steep, sharp ridge to a plateau from where the views are even more spectacular. As we set out with our three sherpa companions, we meet a party of young trekkers coming down. One of them complains that the walk is absolutely terrifying and Cheryl and I exchange a nervous glance. But we are determined to proceed regardless.

The climbing is slow because Cheryl and I are experiencing slight breathing difficulties. The track falls away very steeply in several places and we have to keep our wits about us – and our balance. At one point we have to walk around a narrow rock shelf, clinging to a boulder as we go. I glance down briefly and realise just how far it would be to fall. I suddenly think of David and my children and grandchildren. They would be horrified if they could see where I am right now, clinging to a rock perilously perched on the edge of a sheer cliff. But I am exhilarated. I wouldn't miss this for the world. Rupan tells us that most people who fall do so while taking photographs: they reach a particularly dramatic view and grab for their camera, and unless their feet are planted firmly on level ground they lose their balance while holding the camera to their eye. Simple as that. And several people have fallen from this place and been killed. It's a sobering thought.

After three hours we reach the plateau and I feel a sense of elation that I have never felt before. We are so high – way above the clouds, with snow-capped mountains all around us. Cheryl and I sit and ponder the meaning of life as we regain control of our breathing. We talk about what it feels like to be fifty and sitting almost on top of the world. I have never understood why people, men in particular, are driven to climb mountains, but now, suddenly, I see what motivates them – the sheer joy of it. The struggle to get there and the overwhelming sense of achievement. The extraordinary view of the world from this pinnacle. The elation that women experience in childbirth and perhaps men only experience when they climb mountains.

We almost run down the track back to camp, doing it in half the time it took us to ascend. Not such a good idea, as we both end up with thumping great headaches and nausea, but even that doesn't dampen our joy at what we have just shared. We eat some lunch with the group then continue our descent, knowing that in just a few days we will be back in Pokhara, in civilisation, with phones, proper toilets, showers and other home comforts.

The first thing I do when we reach Pokhara is find a telephone and contact David. I am concerned that if news of our exciting adventure in the forest has reached Australia he will be beside himself with worry. When I call he's not there, so I leave a message. I call back later and he sounds very upset. No, he hadn't heard about our misadventures. But he has some terrible news. Michael O'Shaughnessy, the ‘boy next door' for our children's entire childhood and one of their oldest friends, has died suddenly and without apparent cause while on duty with the Rural Fire Service in Katoomba. And Rick, the young Canadian man so badly injured in the Bali bombings, has also
died. They were both in their early thirties. I am plunged, quickly and painfully, right back into the real world.

We have a final dinner in Pokhara and the group presents me with a brilliant orange T-shirt with ‘Are the Himalayas Steep?' embroidered across the front. Over a chilled local beer I ask everyone about their personal highlight of the trip. ‘The mountains', ‘the views' ‘the villages' ‘the people' are the standard responses but all agree that the highlight was probably getting lost in the forest. They will dine out on it for years, and it's a night that none of us will ever forget.

I am so happy to be going home, and when David meets me in Sydney I am genuinely overjoyed to see him. We are both filled with relief that I am back home for at least six months. It will give us time to sort through all the issues we have confronted over the last year, and time for things between us to settle down a little. We spend the night at an airport hotel because the flight arrived very late; the plan is to drive home at our leisure the next day. Despite feeling exhausted from the long journey we make love and I am amazed at my feeling of desire and passion for him. I can't quite fathom how falling in love with another man and having an affair can be the catalyst for a rekindling of intimacy between husband and wife, but this is what is happening. It's as though we are clinging to each other for dear life after surviving a traumatic ordeal.

On the way home he tells me that a serious drought has set in over the past three months but I am not prepared for the bleak vista that greets me as we drive over the mountains and down to the western plains. The lush green paddocks of last year are
burnt brown and white and most of the dams look half-empty. It's a dusty, barren landscape. As we approach Yetholme, David tells me to be prepared for a shock. ‘You won't recognise the farm,' he says. ‘It looks terrible.'

As we come up the drive I see that the sweeping lawns have disappeared; and it looks as though they have been soaked in bleach. Only the dandelions seem to have survived. The rest is almost white and crunchy underfoot. What I am not prepared for is that David hasn't watered any of my pot plants. As if the dead lawn and paddocks aren't enough of a shock, the sight of dozens of dead twigs sitting in large terracotta tubs around the back verandah leaves me speechless. We have unlimited house water from a deep spring, and it would have been just a matter of watering them every few days. Even the succulents are dead, and it's almost impossible to kill those.

‘What happened here?' I ask, trying not to sound too upset. I don't want us to start off on the wrong foot.

He looks amazed. ‘I suppose I didn't even notice them,' he confesses, as if seeing them for the first time. It occurs to me that he'd had a lot of other things on his mind. ‘You didn't ask me to water them,' he adds.

Down in the vegetable garden the 400 broad bean plants I put in have also died. I shrug my shoulders. It doesn't really matter; after all, they're only plants. I can grow more when the drought is over.

David takes me proudly out to the poultry yards and introduces me to his babies, the goslings, who by now are almost full grown and very handsome indeed. We take a walk around the farm to survey the situation. The dam is almost dry but the spring and Frying Pan Creek are still flowing. None of the trees looks
stressed as yet but the only plant in flower is a carpet rose that I transferred from a pot into the ground just before I left. Roses are remarkably tough, and in most country gardens are among the few plants to survive really prolonged drought.

At another great family reunion I present my seven grandchildren with Nepalese coats and hats that I had had made for them in Pokhara. Little Isabella is still looking very tiny compared with her cousins at the same age, but she is a smiling, gorgeous baby content to lie on the floor on a blanket while the older ones dance and play around her. They lie on top of her and smother her with kisses – I sometimes wonder how she can survive such rough treatment – but she giggles her way through the day, thriving on being the baby of the family.

In November we have some rain, really good rain, and, although the dam doesn't fill, the lawn and paddocks turn green again almost overnight. The lawn actually needs mowing for the first time this year and I feel a burst of energy and enthusiasm for the garden for the first time since we arrived. I weed some of the beds around the house and start to plant the vegetable garden in earnest. It's late spring, which is the perfect time for planting in this climate. I put in three rows of herbs, annual and perennial, four or five different varieties of thyme and sage, oregano, sweet marjoram, basil, coriander, chives, Italian and curly parsley, rocket and various salad greens. I go to town on the tomatoes, planting about forty in neat rows with wooden stakes and trellis for support, plus dwarf beans, borlotti beans, climbing beans, runner beans, silver beet, sweet corn and four very long rows of potatoes, which Miriam's boys help me plant. Within a week everything is sprouting and I mulch furiously between the rows with thick layers of newspaper and straw. I also create a new
garden bed along the back verandahs and plant it with drought-tolerant shrubs and perennials – lavender, roses, catmint, ornamental grasses, artemisia and cranesbill geraniums. There's a little more rain, and as the weather gets warmer everything flourishes. The plants seem to double in size every week and I am thankful for such soil and growing conditions. I get a sense that this is part of my healing process, and I come to understand that getting back into the garden helps me feel ‘normal' again.

Things between David and me are much calmer and more settled. There has been a major shift in our relationship. Where once we ran around all day being busy and getting on with our lives, allowing few moments for intimacy, we now make a deliberate effort to set aside time for each other. The mornings are spent working, and David also sticks carefully to his exercise regime. But we try to have lunch together in a restaurant at least once or twice a week, and we often spend part of the afternoon in bed, which feels decadent. I don't get as much time for gardening, but what the hell, it's much more fun. In many ways this aspect of our relationship is better now than it has ever been. We have stopped talking about what happened in France earlier in the year. We have said everything that can be said and going over and over it just seems to prolong the pain. We put it aside and move on.

We decide to kill a gosling for our Christmas lunch and, although initially resistant, David finally agrees. But he won't be the one to do the dastardly deed. Rick has volunteered and Miriam is keen to do the plucking. She has never helped with this part of the process before. We rapidly discover that plucking a goose is a lot more work than plucking a rooster. Underneath the thick covering of feathers is a carpet of fine down that is
extremely tedious to remove. I want to save the feathers for making pillows, and she painstakingly drops each handful of feathers and down into a pillowslip. It takes hours – no wonder people gave up killing their own poultry and happily started buying chickens from the supermarket instead. There just aren't enough hours in the day for goose plucking. I perform the gruesome gutting process, saving the kidneys and liver for the stuffing, and then singe the entire bird over the gas stove to remove the last of the down. After plucking and dressing it looks small and pathetic, and we all feel rather sorry for it by the time we wrap it up and put it in the fridge.