Writing an introductory paragraph is made more difficult when the writer/writing you’re introducing are exceptional. Such is the case in this instance. Bill Smith is the younger brother of my college roommate and first Guest Author, Rick Smith. Bill & I have known each other via this relationship over all these years. When Rick posted his National Park Service stories of Yosemite, Bill was quick to offer being a Guest Author as well and Mary & I were quick to say “Yes.” We believe you dear readers will find this piece inspiring, an instance of being “touched by the joy and peace we shared with (isolated) villagers.” Each day offers each of us the opportunity to meet and get to know new people that enhance our lives. Thanks, Bill, for the reminder!
Papau New Guinea . . . Trekking Into History
I grew up in the 50s and became a full-fledged summer camp rat. My love of camps stemmed largely from my father, who grew up as a camper, counselor and eventual camp director. Camping for me meant swimming, canoeing, hiking, campfires and sleeping bags. The seeds of adventure were planted early and often in my childhood.
As a school administrator, I spent my summer vacations exploring national parks. My older brother Rick was a park ranger, and he became my key to extreme adventure. Soon I was rock climbing, river rafting, spelunking and backpacking with Rick in spectacular parks like Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon and Carlsbad Caverns.
These park adventures prompted me to venture into faraway lands. While on leave of absence, I explored Hawaii, New Zealand and Australia. A fourth South Pacific locale intrigued me, and I signed up for trekking and river rafting in New Guinea.
Due north of Australia, New Guinea is the world’s second largest island. World War II hero General Douglas MacArthur described New Guinea as an uncompromising jungle. “Bugs were everywhere; biting ants, fleas, chiggers, poisonous spiders and brilliantly colored insects that would land on a sleeping man, and like vampires, suck his body fluids. This was the setting of the green war: the green of slime and vegetation, the green of gangrene and dysentery, and the green clad enemy.”
These same dense jungles gained even more notoriety in 1961 when Michael Rockefeller disappeared in New Guinea, the suspected victim of cannibals. It is probably one of the least visited regions on earth and home to over 800 different dialects. What would compel anyone, let alone me, to embark on a month-long expedition into New Guinea’s interior?
I dismissed these concerns as my flight approached Port Moresby, capital city of Papua New Guinea, on the island’s eastern half. The lush green terrain looked as mysterious as its reputation, and I shuddered excitedly at the thought of trekking the gorges and jungles below. One of my goals was to hike the notorious Kokoda Trail. It was time for me to reach for unparalleled adventure.
A favorite quote by Wilfred Noyce served as my inspiration, “And if adventure has a final and all-embracing motive, it is surely this: We reach out because it is in our nature to reach out, to climb mountains, to sail the seas, and fly to the planets.”
Five people signed up for the Kokoda trek but four had backed out because of its difficulty and a recent report of escalating tribal warfare in the highlands. Upon landing, I learned the trek had thus been canceled by my travel company. Refunds were offered but I stood firm. I’d been training for five months and I was determined to hike the Kokodo Trail. I would meet up with the five again for white water rafting on the Watut River. Adding to the peril of New Guinea, three would contract malaria during our 30-day stay. I took my malaria pills religiously and was fortunate to escape the disease.
The company hired a river guide named Tim as my hiking partner, though he also had never seen the trail. In its travel brochure, the company promised porters and guides for this trek. However, Tim and I would have to brave the Kokoda Trail together and carry our own gear. We were given a simple, hand-drawn map of the trail. No cell phones, GPS or glossy maps back then and that proved nearly disastrous.
My first steps on the faint, narrow track were filled with apprehension. I wondered if I could conquer 60 miles of trail in six days, gaining and losing 20,000 feet of altitude. Our backpacks were heavy and our pace tediously slow as the pathway tunneled through tangled vegetation, crisscrossed streams, and carved its way to higher elevation.
The Kododa Trail had been a brutal World War II battlefield when Japanese troops started to traverse it in an attack on General MacArthur’s headquarters in Port Moresby. Battle artifacts are still unearthed along the desolate footpath. Allied resistance and the jungle itself finally forced the Japanese to retreat just short of Moresby.
Seven hours of rigorous hiking carried us to the lip of Imita Ridge, scene of the last-ditch defense of Port Moresby. On this spiny outcrop of earth, Japan suffered its first land defeat of the war. Australia was preserved but the merciless fighting cost MacArthur 8,546 soldiers, his bloodiest toll of victory ever.
The trail had resisted our every step, then unveiled its beauty when a brilliant rainbow arched across Imita Ridge. A coincidence, no doubt, but the rainbow represented a sobering memorial to the terrible death and destruction of war.
Darkness closed in. We rigged a tent and braced for our first night in Kokoda wilderness. Two tree kangaroos hopped into view. Miniature replicas of their Australian counterparts, tree kangaroos are rarely sighted and stand about 18 inches in height.
Soon the jungle canopy sealed out the sky. I wondered how many eyes were watching us. Cannibals came to mind, but snakes were also an obvious concern. I recalled a recent news article about a python in New Guinea that had yielded the remains of four human bodies.
Tired muscles protested but day two began at sunrise. It would become the most physically demanding day of my life. Relentless climbs tore at aching legs, but descents became more treacherous. Falls were inevitable on the slippery track. We struggled ahead, hoping to reach a village by nightfall. After 10 taxing hours, I fully appreciated my travel pamphlet’s warning: “The rigors of the Kokoda Trail cannot be exaggerated.”
Ahead we heard faint sounds of children playing and cautiously moved to a ridge overlooking a village. Unsure of our welcome, we slowly moved closer and reached the edge of a clearing. A village child spotted us, flashed a smile and yelled out gleefully. Suddenly children were everywhere, smiling and reaching out for our hands. Using Pidgin English, we introduced ourselves. A villager offered us fresh pineapple. The chieftain readied a guest hut, and we thankfully slept that night on the raised floor of a thatched shelter.
Cheerful voices awakened us at sunrise. Somewhat renewed, Tim and I geared up for another day. As I hoisted my pack over tender shoulders, I felt a tickle on my neck. I brushed at the spot, then froze in my tracks. An ominous spider scurried away. Had it been poisonous and bitten me, I knew medical evacuation was impossible.
Day three of hiking would prove no easier. We struggled upward and reached a village where another friendly welcome awaited us. A villager offered us papayas that refreshed our parched thirst. We returned the kindness with cookies, a popular treat for villagers. An elder warned that there was no water until the next village, hours away, so we filled up at a nearby stream. We purified all of our water with iodine and were accustomed to the slightly medicinal taste.
As we departed in the morning, another elder gave us directions to the next village that contradicted our hand-drawn map. About noon we reached the disputed fork in the trail. After much discussion, we trusted the villager’s advice and branched left. By late afternoon our feelings began to sink. We were overdue in the next village by an hour and the trail had disappeared. I repressed a tinge of panic. Of all places to become lost, New Guinea was my absolute last choice.
We bushwhacked our way to a ridge. Far below we saw thatched roofs. We descended a muddy, near-vertical gully and finally reached a village of eight huts. Its quietness warned of something peculiar. An elder timidly approached and held out bananas. They were a special treat, but our elation soon soured. In Pidgin English, we asked if this village was called Efogi, our intended destination. The elder answered, “Efogi not nem belong dis ples.” We were stunned and realized we were completely lost.
We had no hope of finding the Kokoda Trail again. Luckily, we had discovered this village. When we explained, as best we could, that we were lost, an elder offered to guide us back to the Kokoda Trail. After hours of exhaustive hiking, we again reached that fateful fork in the trail. Our guide would not take money, so we gave him a large bag of GORP. Judging from the smile on his weathered face, he loved the tasty mix and a fair trade had been exacted.
All of our contacts with villagers had been pleasant to date, but as we reflected back, we felt one elder may have deliberately misguided us. He had cost us a day, but our current guide had helped us avert disaster. We pressed on to the real Efogi. We were now four days into the six-day trek and had yet to reach the halfway point. Unthinkable at first, we began to doubt our chances of completing the Kokoda adventure. Our map showed a grass landing strip at Kagi, the next village on the trail.
As exhausted as we were, our spirits soared when we reached Kagi and learned a plane was due the next day. We had a mini-celebration to honor the many kindnesses of villagers along the trail. We emptied our packs of most remaining food and prepared a meal for the chieftain and chosen guests. Coffee was the biggest attraction and many cupfuls were passed around the cooking fire. The chieftain had rescued downed Allied pilots during the war and was excited to learn we were Americans. The setting would be etched in my mind forever. Four villagers and two strangers from a different land straining with a language barrier but communicating in the deepest sense.
A stunning sunrise promised good weather and a plane from Port Moresby. An inspection of the grass landing strip nearly convinced us to start hiking again. It was about 400 feet long and perched on a ridge that sloped dangerously downhill. The village maintained the strip and took great pride in a gasoline-powered lawnmower. The 20th century was catching up with Papua New Guinea and I wondered how long its wilderness and culture would remain substantially unchanged.
As the Australian bush pilot accelerated downhill, we felt great relief as the plane angled skyward. I was a licensed student pilot, but I had never seen, done or dreamed of anything like that.
Neither Tim nor I viewed our decision to fly out as a defeat. Not finishing the trail was disappointing in some respects, but we had just explored a mysterious land that so few others would ever experience. We had hiked on a trail that helped alter the course of world history. Most importantly, we were touched by the joy and peace we shared with villagers isolated by jungle, time and distance. New Guinea and its peoples would remain a part of us forever.