Gluttony in the gorge

At the age of 28, I felt the need for a major change of life. Doubts and questions abounded. Where was I going? What was I doing? Who was I supposed to be in this wide, sometimes wondrous, but often worrisome world? To address these existential concerns and clear my head after a failed marriage and subsequent unresolved relationship, I made the decision to spend some time living away from other humans. The place I chose to do this was a remote gorge in Australia’s sparsely populated Northern Territory, 150 miles south of the coastal city of Darwin. It held the Aboriginal name, Umbrawarra.

The idea was to live in a wild place, alone, but not entirely off the land. I procured essential equipment and provisions: an axe, a saw, a rifle, rope, knives, fishing gear, a compass, pots, pans, along with a hefty supply of food, including rice, flour, beans, powdered milk, salt, sugar, spices. Together, this lot weighed close to 300 pounds. It took multiple trips over several days to pack it all to a site in the gorge where I set up camp.

The first journal entry was written in mid-September, 1972, about 30 days after my arrival in Umbrawarra. Subsequent entries are not dated because, lacking a calendar, I soon lost track of the exact day of the week and even month of the year.

What follows are entries, some short, some long, scribbled in a couple of exercise books which soon took the shape of a journal. It is the story of what unfolded in that remote gorge: how I adjusted to my new life, built a camp, acquired food by fishing and hunting, slowly got to know some of my wild, reptilian neighbors – as well as some deep-seated aspects of my own psyche.

A failure of character

Gluttony has a stranglehold on me. I am completely in its power. Last night I finished off what remained of a 1½ pound tin of Milo. Milo is a popular drink in Australia and New Zealand. It’s a powder. When mixed with milk or water it turns into a chocolate malt beverage which can be drunk hot or cold. Most children and adults with a sweet tooth like it.

The tin of Milo amongst my supplies was supposed to last for another month. Several weeks ago, it had not even been opened. Last night something shameful happened. I had just finished a meal of brown rice, red beans, and a substantial portion of buffalo meat, followed by a cup of black tea. I was removing dirty dishes and silverware and generally tidying up when my eyes noticed the tin of Milo. A voice in my head said “You’ve had a productive day. There’s no harm in having a spoonful of Milo to round off your meal.” And that is exactly what I did, firmly believing that, after the one spoonful, I would put the lid back on the Milo tin and return it to the shelf from which it came. But, before the lid was replaced, my right hand was in the service of a new master. It dipped back into the can and scooped up another spoonful which it directed speedily to my mouth. No sooner was my mouth closed than a third helping was waiting for it to open again. And then a fourth and fifth. Only at the point that I began to almost choke on Milo powder did this collusion of hand and mouth cease. But not for long. A quick gulp of tea and I was ready to polish off the rest of the can. The amount consumed in just a few minutes might have been enough to make 10 or 15 cups of Milo drink. Now it’s all gone.

Recently, I’ve had a similar and equally shameful experience with some other dwindling supplies. Using a technique not unlike the one described above, I consumed, in a short space of time, gollops of milk powder, honey and water with dashes of dried coconut thrown in. Together these ingredients were mixed into a paste thick enough to be eaten with a fork.

A month ago, I would have asserted indignantly that I have sufficient will power and strength of character to control this apparently unquenchable desire for things sweet and sticky. These recent mortifying lapses show this to be not the case. It is profoundly disappointing. Though, to be honest, having spent 28 years with myself on this planet, I am not totally shocked. This character flaw must be accepted and followed by a compulsory period of atonement. My intention is to remain in the gorge until the wet season arrives bringing with it rain every day. Until then, as a result of these unworthy binge bouts, my life will be almost entirely without sweetness.

Decades before New Zealand-born Keith Stewart landed on his 88-acre farm in Orange County, NY, where he would grow organic vegetables and herbs for 34 years and teach up-and-coming farmers, his personal pilgrimage included a Thoreauvian stretch living solo in the sparsely populated Australian outback. Now retired from farming, Stewart has been cleaning up a roughly scribbled journal he kept during that formative stretch in 1972, thinking he might turn it into a book. Meanwhile, his wife, artist Flavia Bacarella, is working on woodcuts to accompany the journal. They have invited ‘Dirt’ to publish excerpts of ‘The Alone Trip’ serially. This is the third part.