By Kate Dzienis
•
21 Aug, 2023
Contributed by Doug Bartlett, AURA member (Willetton, WA) 2023 IRRATIONAL SOUTH, FLINDERS RANGES (SA), 12-16 April 2023 I woke from my sleep with a start: it felt like something was crawling on me. Yes, there was something on my face! I plucked a large thing off me and in my head light I could see it was an enormous moth. Another one was crawling around on the beanie on my head. I threw them away, then regretted moving as cold water trickled down past the emergency blanket and another gap opened up to the wind, exposing my wet back. I shivered violently, while Sarah laying beside me mumbled something. I had lost track of time and looked at my watch. How long had we been lying there in the sheltered spot, trying to keep warm, avoiding the wild wind and rain? “Sarah, I think we need to activate your SOS, are you ok with that?” I asked. I knew at some point when hypothermia kicked in I wouldn’t be able to make smart decisions, and wanted to make this one before then. I figured as I was still shivering on and off, I was still above the threshold. It was our third night into the race with only around three hours’ total sleep, so who knows if my thought processes even made sense? She agreed, and so I triggered her SOS. Then I tried to doze off again and not shiver too much. RACE DAY The morning of race day was chilly and windy, as us 50 or so crazy runners, crew and event staff listened to Christian from Wadna shop welcome us to Country. He told us about the area we were running through and the significance to his people. In no time at all it was seven a.m., the countdown was done and we ran off down the gravel road. It was an easy start along the gravel and then sealed roads, doing a short loop around a hill to come back through Blinman where a number of crew and volunteers cheered us on. The easy undulating gravel road led on and in no time I was at the Parachilna Gorge entry to the Heysen Trail, 40km in as the sun warmed us up. I’d had a short reconnaissance run with Sarah yesterday up the track, so ran confidently up the loose gravel creek bed that formed the trail for the next 10 or so kilometres. A little while later, following the slope of a ridge, I’d lost the trail markers and decided the right way to go was through that gap where the goats had gone, down another creek line. On and on I went, luxuriating in this beautiful gorge that kept getting narrower and narrower. Hmm, I wonder if I’m on course? No, I was nowhere near it, and all around me were ridges and ranges that gave no hint of where the trail was. My GPS signal was telling me porkies, almost as if the magnetostratigraphy of the area was deliberately trying to lead me into the endless gorge. It was a moment right out of Picnic at Hanging Rock.