Lost

I have just read a friends blog about a rock-climbing experience and smiled, open-mouthed, bright-eyed the whole way through. My forearms ached in sympathy. That I responded as if he were there in front of me, telling me his story over coffee, is reflective of his writing style - he has a beautiful manner with words - and of how unguarded the account was, but it is something more than that which has left an impression on me. It is vitality of the experience he recounted. It reminded me of my first overnight bushwalking expedition, so long ago now; and my last overnight bushwalk, too long ago also.
I remember the night before, sleeping on the mezzanine in some sort of spacious hut where two burly gentlemen kept the open fire burning and I was allowed within reach of my then boyfriend even though his father was present and ensured that I spent the second night sharing a hike tent with his sister (just in case I had sufficient energy after that first day's walking to get up to anything other than sleep).I remember the endless climb up a four-wheel drive track to the top of Mount Tamboritha and the incredible satisfaction of a milo bar eaten at the top, and of jam sandwiches in white bread. I remember the little star-shaped flowers which were sprinkled in the low scrubby cover beneath the pale twisty trees. I remember the descent to Lake Tali Karng, and the icy water which I endured just long enough to rinse off the sweat. The teensy cup of port generously shared by someone committed enough to carry it in and how it knocked me out for the night. The flies which immediately swarmed at my face when I lifted the lid of the pit-toilet, and the many more remaining flies which shot out moments later when I actually squatted over it to relieve myself! The enormous blisters which my heels became as we set out the next morning. My boyfriend's cousin throwing his pack in disgust and letting out the c-word when we reached the foot of yet another near-vertical climb, and how it felt to make that climb and those which preceded and followed it. The cooling relief of the first river crossing. The trickle and sparkle and light of the water over smooth stones. The third river crossing when my boyfriend slipped in his chivalrous effort and dropped me right in. The twenty-odd crossings after that, water curving serenely past sheer, glistening rock walls. The squelching shoes in between. The limp flappy skin of my heels and the pain. The final river crossing, the winding road down the mountains and a hamburger with the lot in Traralgon, one of my most satisfying meals.
I remember all of these things and they are all vivid, I can actually feel them as I recount them. How wonderful it is that my memory is not confined to verbal abstractions, that there are memories stored in my senses.
The similarities between my walk into Lake Tali Karng and my friend's rockclimbing trip are clear: fresh air, nature, beauty, physical endurance, extending oneself physically and mentally, freedom. But is novelty also part of it? If I was still bushwalking several times a year, would it still make me feel so alive? If he was rockclimbing regularly would it be the same?
I think so. I really do. But some things can't realistically be maintained, instead they are lost and then perhaps found again, or forgotten and remembered, or neglected and then nursed back to life. If they matter, they are found, remembered, nursed. Is there a point at which it is too late?
I acquired a knee injury after a full day's walk down the spur from Mount Feathertop into Harrietville. It stopped me running (which had given me the fitness I relied upon to make up for my lack of strength in carrying a pack). Then the bushfires which tore through the high country when I was fortunate enough to live there for several years stopped me from even the briefest of day-walks as the wilderness took time to recover and the tracks took time to be cleared and declared safe. Then I moved away, became a mother and even just camping overnight someplace wild became impossible to face with a baby who didn't sleep through until I became pregnant for the second time... though perhaps if I had overcome that obstacle, things would have been different. We tried once, but all of us were too tired to go through with it when it came time to pack. Our camping equipment is in the shed, most of it untouched through several moves. My perfect seventy-litre osteopathic hiking pack with all it's memories takes up space in the top shelf of my cupboard, unused in five years.
How much of this could I realistically have overcome before now? How much could I realistically overcome now or in the near future?