The long journey, a Steiner odyssey

Global Cultures, those most in touch with the cycles of season, attachment to land and an understanding of life through stories, send their young people out, away from parents and families, away from the comforts of community life and home, out onto the land on whose life they must learn to share mutual prosperity. At our school, at the base of the vast mountain ranges whose feet have been walked and sung by the Taungurung, and whose pioneering spirit lives in the mountain huts of sinewy, hard living migrants in search of a life of independent means, our young people set out into these mountains of our home place in search of adventure, independence and an increased understanding of themselves. After a year-long, intentionally sequenced, compulsory Outdoor Education program, the year nines at Mansfield Steiner School take up the challenge to create their own journey. The parameters: an adventure of 15-20 days. A maximum of 350 kilometres from Mansfield as a start point, they need to make it back home together, safely. The journey must be locomoted by body energy only and three different forms of travel must be undertaken. This year the students chose to hike, paddle and bike ride. There is a budget per head. The class established early that Warwoolowler (Mount Bogong) was key to their unanimous challenge. And so began a journey whose every obstacle was met with a resounding, “nah, just send it”. The basic translation of which was that every time we hit a snag that saw the adventure include a massive climb, a long kilometre day or some kind of tight turn-around the students met it with an infallible sense of taking it in their stride from the Mitta Valley to Mansfield via Mount Bogong. And so the dream became a spreadsheet, and the spreadsheet became a reality. Kate, dedicated bus-driver and first night settler of nerves, waved us off as we began the long-planned two-day ascent (and descent and ascent and descent) of the aptly named Long Spur (which we can confirm is, in-fact, long, and substantially up), delivering us to the genteel haven of Cleve Cole Hut, famed stone building of the well-mannered high country Alpine Skiers, of the highest mountain in Victoria. A pot belly-fire and some journal times were gladly had. The Bogong Ascent met us with a misty morning but cleared in all her brilliance so that our climb was celebrated by the mountain gods with an uninterrupted 360 degree view of brilliance, making every heavy step worth the journey. In term three, cross-country ski instructor Nick Waite had waxed lyrical that Quartz Ridge should be our descent point and connecting tissue between Bogong and the Alpine Plains. It did not disappoint. Student, Annella Logan-Williams beautifully reminisced at our final reflection that it posed a perfect picture, "mountains behind and all my beautiful friends in-front, the world perfectly at peace". This night’s camp at Bogong Creek Saddle marked the beginning of group routine - chai tea made and passed around, endless hands of Monopoly Deals and sunsets watched in awe struck silence that no one imposed. We said goodbye to Mt Bogong and pressed on towards what would later be referred to as "the big day", Grey Hills Track. This day threw everything at us. We started with a climb so steep that even the normally outspoken, Regan, was quiet. As we reached the first knoll of the day, we were met with more ants than I've ever seen and there was outrage towards the back of the group that we weren't moving. It was only when we looked up ahead that we realised why Bella and Josh weren't moving on. The track seemed to run straight into shrub so dense you had to literally throw yourself at it just to move an inch. We slowly pushed through the death shrub and were reborn out the other end. Up and up and up. Rain. Up. Down a little. Blue Skies. Rain again. Ants, so many ants. Up. Up. Up and ants. Eventually we were on the home stretch into camp. The last 600 metres turned out to be about two kilometres which made arriving into camp even sweeter. I was so impressed by how readily everyone was trekking down to the river to collect water for the group. (I later found out there was some serious butt-sliding action happening on the snow patches nearby and I wasn't sure whether to be impressed by the ability to create fun out of anything or upset that I didn't get an invite). But, as with all good journeys the real snags were yet to come. Road closure, what road closure? VicRoads promised it would be open! Open I say! I called them five times! The Bogong Road is still closed. Okay, redirect the food drop to Windy Corner at Falls Creek, please. Just a small 12 kilometres out of our way for us and a small 300 kilometres plus for those driving. No Problem. Thanks to the adaptive pivot of parents George Landy and Dave Atkins for that stretch of imagination, we restocked and headed on our way. But wait, that rain long predicted, now it will be snow. Snow, in November!?! No worries. We - all 15 bodies - will crowd into the 3x3 metre hut at Pretty Valley. Water colour paintings were made, journals were added to, newly stocked tea and biscuits consumed, cards on endless hands, and rotations like penguins nearer and further from the smallest pot-belly fire in the history of mountain huts were considerately made. Finally, bed with a Nalgene hot water bottle in -5 degree conditions. My already high respect for this group just went up a whole notch. Waking up in 10 centimetres of unexpected fresh snow in November (and plenty more to come on the radar) is a hushed benediction sent from the ether. Some things were going to have to change. So, there was a lodge, a sauna and a boot-room for the drying of all things. A massive thank-you must go out to Paul, Irina and Kye Noah who manage Shuush Lodge at Falls Creek and Zac Howard and Ange Maiuto who made that connection possible. They took us in at short notice, insisted on feeding us and made us more than comfortable. Despite best laid plans, we would not walk the connecting way to Hotham Heights, the Razorback via Diamantina Spur to Harrietville, 20 to 30 centimetres of snow on Mount Feathertop did not seem the sage course of action. Despite the sauna, snack party and nice things of the lodge, the deafening silence on the bus home marked how the students felt about this. Not cool. Grande disappointment. There were big feelings of uncertainty, hopelessness and guilt. Were we making the right decision? 24 hours later we heard news that multiple people had been rescued from the place we had evacuated from, and we knew we had done the right thing. It can be extremely difficult to accept when things don’t go to plan, particularly when you've been planning for months in advance. But these year nines handled this pivot in a way most adults wouldn't be able to. They didn’t want to come home, but they knew it was the only option, they accepted it and then rose from the ashes for our return 24 hours later. The students were dropped at Harrietville with bikes, fresh food (a fresher smell than might have been anticipated) and sunshine behind our backs. The next couple days saw us becoming very familiar with our bike seats and falling back into the groove of life on the Long Journey. Our pace had shifted now we were no longer hiking, we had time to splash in the river, paint each other's nails, to read and to journal. We stopped in at a waterhole where we would have lunch (using Bella and Suz's knives because we forgot ours and Bella wasn't at all annoyed with us) and jump into some of the coldest water ever. When we arrived in Bright, we were met by the annual hot rod event that brought with it a culture that was jarring to our little outdoor ed family bubble. The hot rods moved on and it was time for us to swap out our peddles for paddles and raft down the Ovens River to Myrtleford. The paddle days challenged us in many ways. Patience became one of our greatest assets, closely followed by good snacks. After some big moments on the river, some cracks in the group started to show. The river had changed us, eroded our strong banks and we were starting to crumble. We were tired. But as the tears started flowing and our tempers grew short, the lines between individuals began to blur. It became difficult to tell where one person stopped and the next began. We were becoming one. We held each other up even when we were too tired to stand on our own. So, we got on our bikes and we rode. And we rode and we rode. We stopped briefly to eat and sleep and then we rode some more. There was a fire in our eyes like never before. We were nearly home. The ride from Edi Cutting to Tolmie deserves an honourable mention here. There were times on this day that it truly felt impossible. Times when it felt like our bodies would just simply shut down and refuse to keep going. But just as they have done all year, this group of young people blew me away. They pushed themselves through the blood, sweat and tears (literally all three) and pushed me through it too. I arrived into Tolmie numb with pride that I would be walking into school the next day, alongside the strongest group of young people I've ever known. Our final day felt a bit surreal, and the emotions that flooded us will probably take months or even years to process fully. But walking through those front gates, the guard of honour standing as it does to witness this rite of passage, watching the older kids look on with nostalgia and the younger kids cheering with excitement and awe, confirms that this program is much bigger than a long walk home, it is an odyssey, and I am so proud to be part of it.

The long journey, a Steiner odyssey

Debacle delayed

Leon Pezzimenti recognised for 40 years in the fresh food industry

Engineer adds voice to stone extraction debate

Welfare centre warns housing stress worsening

Playground drama swings to a happy ending

Rufous Whistler – arrival of a summer songbird

Bombers go back-to-back in A grade

“No stone unturned” – Police committed to the long-haul in manhunt

Start your engines, Wilby Drags are back

Most popular stories