It was in the late spring of 1999, and after many months of planning and anticipation, my father and I would finally set out on our trek through Cradle Mountain in North Eastern Tasmania.

Wild and pristine, the land spoke of ancient shadows that continued to reverberate to the delicately attuned ear. Open and welcoming, the day was clear and sunny and the early morning air was crisp and fresh, cooling my nose and filling my lungs with the anticipation of the new day.

My hope to reclaim a connection with my father flew high like a banner for all to see, the mountains, the birds and animals. My intention was declared and set.

A hero’s journey, we set out somewhat over prepared and over packed which became more and more apparent as our journey progressed. None the less we were impassioned and determined to prove our metal to the mountain, but most of all to one another.

We grunted and we groaned as we struggled onward and upward, stopping only for magical views and to fill up our water bottles with the most delicious, sweet tasting fresh water from various points up the mountain. Sometimes the tiniest of a trickle out of the side of the mountain was all that was on offer, but even so, a gift of joy, it was so pristine and sweet to the taste.

“Deep within, the climb was a measure of trust. I reached out for support and security; my dad’s sturdy hand was always right there. I looked to his face, his eyes darting from rock to me and back again”

As the sun lowered, the mist came in and so we made camp for the night. A nourishing meal on the fire and a few shots of whisky to stay warm and we were laughing and reminiscing about years gone by. Before long, as I had quietly hoped it would, we were talking about things that had never been spoken out loud before. I listened, and then he listened and then we both spoke and listened, this time with our hearts.

Tears flowed freely and smiles followed. Out there, in the wilderness with the wombats, wallabies, Tasmanian devils and quolls all making their presence known, and with the Ancient Ones of this sacred place bearing witness, my father and I built a bridge between our hearts.

All disagreements, resentments, hurts and anger just fell away.
That night I gained a father. The father that I had longed for all my life.

That night I began to learn about my father, the Man and life through his eyes. Upon our sleep the deal was sealed and we emerged from our tent brand new people, connected and bonded.

At day break, the birds and menagerie of wildlife, insects and bushland welcomed us into the morning. Somehow, they seemed to know all about the celebration of love emerging, so bright, cheerful and jipper.

The rest of our trek was ‘icing on the cake’ as we laughed and helped each other struggle up treacherous rocky terrain, both as determined as the other to prove our grit. Every step earning more admiration and respect and deepening the bonds firmly set.

I remember walking back down the mountain and pausing to behold the magnificent beauty of Dove Lake and chuckling to myself as it happens to be so aptly named for our adventure together. An image came to mind of the white dove of peace, holding the olive branch …a valiant quest for peace indeed it was.

You would be safe in saying that this was a tough trek, requiring a lot of hard work and effort. But what remains at the forefront for both of us is the magic that happened between us. We climbed a metaphorical mountain of untying lifetimes of knots. Knots of our own as well as those of our ancestors, as we found acceptance of ourselves and one another and sealed our bond, Father and Daughter, Human to Human.